


The Shadows Fall Behind

by otakuashels, Shuriken7



Series: A Collision of Worlds [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drama, Drama & Romance, Falling In Love, Historical, Historical Hetalia, Lemon, Love, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Undecided Relationship(s), War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 222,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otakuashels/pseuds/otakuashels, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shuriken7/pseuds/Shuriken7
Summary: The eighteenth century ended on shaky ground. Heartbroken in different ways, the only choice is to look towards the future. War looms on the European horizons, young nations grow and learn the harsh realities of a rapidly industrializing world. Expansion and exploration. Travesty and triumph. As they move forward through the nineteenth century's trials and tribulations, they find each other on the road again and again. What can be done when your destinies are tied?The third book of the Collision of Worlds series about America and England's relationship over time, beginning with the Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812.Lemon





	1. Impressment

**Author's Note:**

> General note for the entire fic: This installment will cover the 1800s. This is a very dynamic and world-changing time. Basically, a LOT happened historically during this century that has echoing effects on the world today. What this means is there will be characters/attitudes (I'm looking at you Confederate!America and Imperialist!England) who may do things that are problematic from a modern perspective (and even from some perspectives at the time). We will try to handle these points of view with a historical lens. We will not be able to balance all points of view on historical moments, and we hope that you will give us the benefit of the doubt when we tackle difficult moments in history or gloss over them for the sake of the personal story we are trying to tell between characters.

_May 1803_

 It was hard to read anything when the hand holding it was shaking, in rage.  He obviously had not been in his right mind when he had agreed to sign this. England swore, crumpling the edge of the treaty, lip curling in disgust. The Treaty of Amiens had been a courtesy to France, they had known each other long enough for that, to give the frog a break for his people's revolution. Then the bastard had gone and cocked everything up. “I thought you would be pleased to go to war with France again.” George III drawled, his voice echoing off the stone of the study. 

“We do have better things to do, France should have this under control!” England protested, shaking the letter as he turned to face the King. George III slumped in a wide armed chair by the fireplace staring idly at England’s heavy desk covered in stacks of paper. Pacing in front of the window behind his desk, agitation etched his features clear as day. “France should have taken care of Napoleon ages ago! I told him I wouldn’t have any more of the man’s shenanigans. And what does Napoleon do? He goes and reorders the international system in western Europe.-”

“He is causing Germany problems.” a soft voice interrupted his rant. Charlotte entered the room quietly, walking towards her husband who showed little to no interest in the blight at hand.

“Not only Germany Charlotte! Switzerland, Netherlands, and Italy! Francis knows specifically how I feel about it! Napoleon even had the gall to state that we had no right, no say in European politics!”

“But I was an elector of the Holy Roman Empire!” George snapped, finally paying attention. Charlotte soothed him with a pat on the shoulders, motioning the empire to continue. 

“And now he has caught the attention of  Tsar Alexander I! What does he think he is doing by catching the attention of Catherine the Great’s grandson! Insulting Russia? He is crazy! Everyone knows the whole family is crazy!” England shook his head, shoving at his bangs away from his forehead in frustration.  Turning on his heel he resumed his pacing, well aware of George and Charlotte watching him. Would anything start going right?!

***

_July 1807_

_London, England_

_Westminster Palace_

The day was warm, but luckily not unbearably so. That would have simply made the entire situation intolerable. It was bad enough that France was still making demands, despite his overtures for peace, but he’d signed a bloody treaty with Russia who was now sitting at England’s table with the rest of the remains of the Fourth Coalition against the Napoleonic Empire. Prussia looked ruffled and annoyed to his right. Russia wearing that imperceptible smile on his face. Sweden was on the left, his arms crossed and peering at the others through his spectacles. Despite his taciturn face, England couldn’t help be grateful that Sweden was being as adamant as he was. France had made too many inroads into the heart of Europe these days. Not to mention, the beginning of the month had been a trial. America had been independent for years now, why did the fourth of July still afflict him so much? He’d put off this meeting too long. Russia and Prussia had already concluded their treaties.

“What we want to know is why the hell did you betray us by joining France!” Prussia said, frowning at Russia from across the table. England watched him, wondering if he was going to have to do something to keep them from making a mess in the meeting chambers.

“We all have to act in our own best interests, no?” Russia said, the smile growing on his face. 

“You better not be planning anything with him.” said Sweden. 

“Ah, but Prussia has also chosen to make peace with him?”

“Only because I can’t make war anymore! He destroyed my army! Nearly a quarter of a million men, killed or captured. That bastard!” Prussia slammed his wine glass down so hard on the table it cracked. England was glad he’d brought the lesser dishware for this particular get together. 

“You have designs on Finland, don’t you?” Sweden said, staring at Russia. The nation just smiled. Russia had always been odd, England thought, but in the last few decades he’d grown large. He was once a small child hiding behind Ukraine’s skirts, but things had changed. He towered over everyone at the table except Sweden. England sighed, he needed to say something as the other member of the coalition who had not made peace.

Shifting from foot to foot ever so slightly, England thought about his position. Everything considered it was all going rather smoothly, he had anticipated that it all would proceed in a tumultuous manner. England stifled a noise of surprise as the door slammed open. Apparently those thoughts had been premature. 

“I’m engaged.” England threw over his shoulder, assuming that his chamber servants would stop whoever it was. The footsteps proceeded regardless. “I’m in the middle of something, can’t it wait?” 

“Ha! America! It’s been a long time!” said Prussia, jumping up from the table, his foul mood shoved beneath a wide grin. He brushed past England’s shoulder. England’s heart leapt into his throat. Had the nightmares spilled over into the day? England leaned over the table, counting in his head. He would not lose his temper in front of his allies. 

“Prussia! I didn’t expect to see you here!” 

“Unfortunately, I find myself without an army.” The sound of a hand slapping against a back echoed through the room. Russia peered around England, his expression curious. Sweden sighed and shifted in his chair. “I need these idiots to fight the good fight.”

“Yeah, I’m not into fighting these days. That’s why I’m here. England, I need to talk to you.”

“I’m busy, America,” said England, through gritted teeth.

“I don’t care what you’re doing, we need to talk.” he said, the footsteps starting again and stopping right by the table. 

“Honestly.” England frowned. “Nations should know better.” He shook his head when he realized that the golden haired boy was not going to simply remove himself and simplify the situation. “I guess I need to excuse myself for a moment, gentlemen.” 

Straightening up, he turned, readying himself for the sight of America standing in his rooms. The words he’d planned died on his lips the moment he saw him. In the dark moments of the night he’d been cradling the image of America in that rainstorm during the siege at Yorktown, a gangly boy falling to his knees and trying to make amends. If he was drunk enough, he tried to imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t knocked his hand away. If it had all been amicable. 

That memory did not prepare him for the young man standing in front of him. America had certainly gotten broader in the shoulder. He had, quite simply, become larger than England could remember in any of his memories. His face was still boyish, but had lost the lines of childhood. He was more adult than England could ever recall. Damn, it had only been thirty years. America raised an eyebrow, waiting for England to say something. Clearing his throat, England gestured with his arm towards a side door, realizing too late it was his bedroom, so he abruptly changed course. England avoided looking at the others involved as Prussia chortled. 

“Sod off Gilbert.” England exited the room. America would follow him if he wished to continue his tantrum. Shoulders rigid and back straight, England walked down the hall, staunchly not looking at the other blond.

“What did you need to talk about that is so dire I have to be interrupted from considering what move to make on France?” 

“We need to talk about how you keep stealing my sailors for your navy!” America replied, his footsteps heavy on the floor beside England.

England knew he would need to hold his tongue until they were in more private quarters. Taking note of an empty room he stepped inside, teeth grinding as his jaw clenched. The room was empty save for a table, chairs and other such furniture niceties. Waiting, he looked towards the ceiling until America passed him and he all but slammed the door shut. Taking a breath he slowly and quietly spoke, “You are pulling me away for this? It could have waited.” He frowned finally looking at the boy. Had he gotten taller as well? England couldn’t remember having to bend his neck this far.

“I really don’t think it can. The _Leopard_ tricked the _Chesapeake_ ’s captain so that he could fire on him! Four of my people are dead! Eighteen were wounded!” From his pocket, America drew out a newspaper and flung it onto the table. England could see the headline. All of the American newspapers had made the captain of the _Leopard_ into a villain. Many had gone so far as to request Congress to declare war. America pointed at the sketch of men lying on the deck of the ship. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not part of you anymore! You can’t have my people. How many of those men were actually yours, England?”

One. That was the answer. Jenkin Ratford would pay for his lack of loyalty with his life. The other four had been America’s, but they’d signed up for _his_ navy! “They were deserters,” England said.

America glared down at him, squaring his shoulders. He’d dressed for court, adopting the older fashions still required, although the modern fashion moved along at a fast pace. The soldiers wore longer trousers now, their jackets accenting broad shoulders. Looking at America now, despite his new size, it could have been thirty years ago. Except for the fact that France had lost his damnable mind and killed his monarchy. That thought made England’s frown deepen, the reason America had grown was that France had sold him the Louisiana territory. He’d doubled his land holdings practically overnight. He could still hear Spain cursing both of them under his breath when the sale had been made. It was probably only a matter of time before Spain lost Florida. America was stupid if he wasn’t thinking of how to consolidate his holdings. 

“For one man, you killed four of mine and committed an act of war on me,” America said.

He could see that America had more to say, it was practically glowing beneath his skin. “Come now, America, I’ve never known you to be reticent.” replied England. 

“I have written to you repeatedly about this. Between you and France I won’t have any ships left! If you two want to fight, fine! Leave me out of it!” he said. “I’m just trying to do honest trade. I’m neutral, why won’t you just let me be!?”

England smothered a snort. “Neutral? You are trying to be a nation and you wish to remain neutral, yet do foolish things like buy land from France when he is making war on me.” Shaking his head in amusement England rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Sweden never had such grandiose expectations.” 

“And Sweden is helping me out in the Mediterranean, no thanks to you,” snapped America. England knew all about that. Not long before the Battle of Trafalgar where he was killed, Admiral Nelson had told England what he understood of the engagement that had happened recently between the laughably, to England’s mind, small American navy and the Barbary states, Algeria in particular. Nelson had said something about a particular American maneuver quite possibly being one of the most bold and daring acts of their time. England had quickly changed the subject. It wasn’t enough to meet American merchants on the high seas, but now his attempts at a navy as well? Absurd.

Crossing his arms once again he somehow managed, although shorter, to stare down his nose at the younger nation.  “You think I intend to make war on you, that you are even worthy of the consideration? I know you aren’t daft. If your men get in the way of me going after my own than that is no fault of mine. You did not hear my complaints of the men that died when you chased after Arnold did you?” England rocked forward slightly onto his toes. “If you're going to play with the big boys United States then you need to realize that that comes with unwanted circumstances and instances.” England wasn’t sure what he was really expecting out of his tone and responses to the young nation, but he was still put off. The young blond bristled with indignation, hackles as high as possible. Tan cheeks flushed dark with anger and for a brief moment England expected the balled fists to aim for his face.

“How can you--” 

“Talk as if I am speaking from experience?” England drawled, crossing his arms over his chest once more. “Because once you have experienced something that is what you can do. Once you have built more than one nation, one colony up from nothing. Alone. Then you have that privilege. Experiences,” he stressed the word, “such as realizing that things, arguments or complaints such as these are to be done in an appropriate time and manner. Such as not interrupting negotiations between other nations. Rather than stirring up people's emotions and creating an image of petulance to those that could make or break you. You need to be careful otherwise you can get hurt. Such interactions are very delicate.” England cursed mentally as he began to slide into teaching mentality. Taking a deep breath England attempted to ground himself. 

America took a step forward and England held his ground. They were close now. “They were _my_ people. You keep attacking my merchant ships. Has this business with France made you decide not honor the rights of neutral nations to trade anymore? If so, you’re just as bad as he is. I don’t give a damn about any of this powerplay you are all involved in. Leave me out of it or I’d like to see how you’re going to wage a war without my goods.”

England lowered his voice, a growl entering it. “America, you may have forgotten, but the Jay’s Treaty is over, _you_ chose not to renegotiate it. I’ve been more than fair to you and you have the gall to walk into my house and demand more? I have bigger things to concern me than you. If France takes control of Europe because I am wasting time with this, we will all be sorry for it. Do you not think he would make war on you as soon as he is done here?”

“So, I’m supposed to understand that you’re protecting me in some twisted way?” America’s face was incredulous. “You’re doing a bang up job, England, I really appreciate being harassed by the Barbary pirates.”

“You wanted to be independent. Independence means you are on your own.”

England stood, leaning close. America didn’t budge, his breath catching a little, but no other reaction. He really had grown, certainly become a bigger pain in the arse. “Do you know who I am?” 

“You’re England.”

England chuckled and shook his head. “I am the British Empire and you are just an upstart. Let’s see how long you hold onto your sovereignty, America.” Something shifted in America’s eyes, a flash of something England recognized, but he couldn’t quite connect to an individual emotion. America clenched his jaw.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m not going to just lay down and let you walk over me,” he said. America turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

***

Silence followed the young nation storming out of the room. Heaving a sigh England rubbed at his temple in frustration. There was no end to this it seemed. England had hoped that for the next fifty to one hundred years that he would be given some piece of mind and his former colony would stay from him as if he carried the plague. It seems that fate had other plans for him. He felt drained in ways that diplomatic meetings normally did not.  And he still had an actual diplomatic meaning after this to deal with. He was too tired to even rage about this now. Pulling at the edges of his sleeves and headed out the door that America had left gaping open. Now he had more to deal with. He could deal with these emotions and the bottom of a bottle of scotch at a later time. 

***

England could be so infuriating! If only he could get off his high horse for a second! America burst into the hallway to find the other three milling not far away. Sweden leaned against the wall, his face as unreadable as ever. Russia was staring at him. America looked back, what did he want? 

“Hey, America, are you leaving?” asked Prussia.

“I have to go. He’s being a bastard. I still have to go talk to France, anyway, maybe in person I can get him to stop--”

“Shut up for a second.” America raised his eyebrows. Prussia looked serious, desperate even. “If you’re going to see France I need you to take a message to my brother, Germany. France has taken a lot his lands and currently wants him by his side. I’m... well, not that someone like me worries, but...”

“I get it. Where’s the letter?” Prussia reached into his jacket and brought out the note, America took it and tucked it away. Prussia grabbed his hand and shook it.

“Thanks, kid.” He pulled America closer. “Don’t worry about him. It’s not like it’s new he has a stick up his ass, huh?” Prussia was laughing loudly when England stepped into the hallway, frowning at the display between all of them.

“I thought you were leaving,” he sniped, deliberately bumping into America’s shoulder as he brushed back into the room. Sweden stepped in after him.

“I am!” America called after him. Prussia winked at him as he stepped inside, America blushed. Prussia could think what he wanted. Russia lingered in the hallway, a smile on his face. Having only ever spoken to him by letter, America wasn’t sure what to think. He stretched out his hand.

“Nice to meet you in person, finally.”

“Yes, it is nice to make new friends. If you ever need anything, think of me will you?” He smiled, holding America’s hand a hair too tight. America squeezed back and Russia seemed pleased. 

“Sure,” said America. With one last smile, Russia let go of his hand and walked back into the room. America shrugged and made his way out of the palace. 

What a waste of time! They’d been doing all right, or so he’d thought. Trade was going well, England benefitting from it with his exports... maybe he really did need to step up his own manufacturing. As long as England had control of making things he could act this way. America stepped out into the rainy London day and got into a carriage. Maybe France would be more reasonable.

***

_Paris, France_

“ _Amerique,_ if I do not make demands on England’s shipping where would I be? He’s trying to undermine my empire!” said France, they were walking through the streets of Paris and America couldn’t help but find it changed. When he’d last been here, France had a king and queen. Only a few years later he was sending recruiters to him trying to gather American soldiers for his army. Washington, then President, turned them away. France hadn’t spoken to him until he needed to sell him Louisiana. Strangely, he acted as if nothing had changed at all.

“I’m just asking that you leave me out of it. I’m trading with both of you, why isn’t that enough?”

“He doesn’t want you to trade with me, and I don’t want you to trade with him. That is where you have put yourself.”

“C’mon, France--”

“We aren’t going to be able to come to an agreement about this. If you want to declare war on me I am perfectly able to handle you. Remember, America, without me you would not be independent at all and, while extraordinary, your war with a few of those on the north African coast doesn’t exactly make you a force to be reckoned with. The Ottoman Empire might be persuaded to say something in regards to that, but he has bigger problems than his satellite nations preying on North American shipping.”

“You won’t negotiate at all?”

“Did England? Ah, I see I have struck a sore spot. You should be grateful to me, once I defang him he won’t be able to trouble you anymore. Without his navy, England is hardly dangerous. In fact, without his navy you’d likely be a bigger mess than you already are. He protect you, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really, America?” France paused, turning to America, a patronizing look in his eye. He even went so far as to pat America on the cheek. 

America pushed his arm away. “You really think you’re going to defeat him on the ocean? I heard about the Battle of Trafalgar. Sounds to me like his navy bested yours.”

France frowned, his expression darkening. “Anything is possible.” 

 _You’re dreaming, France,_ America thought. They continued down the street in silence, the bustle of humans going about their business all around them. A young man walked up the street towards them. His hair was bright in the sun and fell into his blue eyes. America watched him for a moment, remembering Prussia’s description of his younger brother that he cared so much about. He was thinner than America, but just barely. He stopped in front of them.

“France, I--” A cough seemed to catch him unawares and he groped for a handkerchief in his pocket, not seeming to be able to find it. 

“Here,” America said, fishing his own out of his jacket.

When he could breathe again, he looked at America for a moment, his expression severe. “ _Danke._ ” He turned to France. “I came to beg leave of you to visit Austria. After such a loss--”

“Germany, how many times have I told you, you will be staying here until Prussia can be more reasonable.” France waved a hand through the air and then stepped forward to hook an arm around Germany’s shoulders. The younger nation’s face fell. America looked between the two. France wasn’t acting like the France he knew. This version of him was arrogant and willing to wield what power he had on everyone around him. America frowned.

“But--” Germany said.

France shook him slightly, interrupting, “Oh, I don’t believe you two have met. America this is Germany, well, what are you currently? Some confederation of your big brothers. They can never seem to hold things together.” Germany blushed, his brow furrowing. “Why don’t you walk with us. _Amerique_ was just leaving.”

As France turned on his heel, America resisted the urge to trip him. The fact that it would have been a suicidal move was the only thing that stopped him. France wasn’t wrong. If France turned his collective military might on America, he had no way of stopping him. He wouldn’t only take back Louisiana, but might haul him back here, just like he had done to Germany. There were other nations in France’s house these days, but America had trouble keeping track of them. England had gone to war with France three times in the last fifteen years, the sets of allies constantly shuffling as France fashioned himself the ruler of continental Europe.

France strode ahead, seemingly unaware of the distance that was forming between himself and America. Germany shuffled along, coughing every now and again. “Are you sick?” America asked.

“I’ve never been strong... my brothers like to go to war over me and... well, I don’t have a very strong sense of myself.”

“I know what that feels like.”

“Really?” Germany gave him a look, as if America had been trying tease him. America raised an eyebrow. “I know about you. You were the colony that escaped the British Empire. He kind of intimidates me to be honest. My brother Hanover really likes him, but... I don’t know what I think.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think about England most days either.” America laughed, wondering if the serious nation would crack a smile. He didn’t. “Hey, I saw your brother Prussia in London.” 

Germany stopped, his eyes widening. Good, America was starting to get worried he only had a frowning facial expression. “How did he look?”

“Like he’d been run over by a carriage to be perfectly honest. He’s alive though. He wanted me to give you this.” America produced the letter and Germany quickly grabbed it, hiding it away on the inside of his waistcoat. 

“Thank you.”

“Stop dallying, you two!” France hollered from up ahead. America picked up his pace and Germany did, too. 

“Maybe when this is all over we can be friends? You know, with all these old guys, we should stick together, right?” said America.

Germany looked at him, his gaze seeming far older than America had given him credit for. “Maybe.”

“It’s not a no.” America shrugged. It didn’t take long to get back on his ships, wondering what he was going to tell President Jefferson. France had been uncooperative and England was being a downright ass. 

***

_December 22, 1807_

_Washington D.C._

“You can’t do this to me, Thomas!” said America, staring at the document that the President had just signed into law. Jefferson looked at him, the patience he’d always worn looking strained. He’d changed since he was the man who had penned the Declaration. His ideological falling out with John Adams had taken a toll. But this? It was ridiculous.

“I’m not doing anything. This bill was debated in Congress this morning and now I have signed it as is my duty as the President of the United States.”

“This is going to destroy me!”

“America, don’t be dramatic. It’s simply an embargo on France and Great Britain until they decide to deal with this fairly. It is an extension of the measures we have already taken and things that we have done before.”

“Refusing to buy silk and leather from England is one thing, but a total embargo? What are we supposed to do? Let everything rot on the docks?”

“They will realize that they need our goods. It’s a necessary evil.” A few of the senators came in, members of Jefferson’s Democratic-Republican party. America headed out of the room, leaving the Embargo Act on Jefferson’s desk. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. This was not going to go over well. People might not think much of it now, but when spring made it easier for the ships to sail again and they weren’t allowed to leave? He could already feel the anger they would feel in his chest. Maybe it would hurt England by doing this, but he couldn’t help but feel it was going to hurt him just as much.

 _Canada._ Maybe he could trade with him? Did he count as an embargo against Great Britain? Probably not. Maybe he needed to talk to him. Canada hadn’t exactly been all that forthcoming ever since the end of the war. He hadn’t visited at all. Fine, America thought, maybe it was time he visited him and asked him what he thought about a little smuggling venture. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

 


	2. Harsh Words and Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England makes plans with new allies while trying to juggle a war with France and threats of war from America. America makes another attempt at convincing Canada to join him against England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: England failing at being monogamous. Lots of politics.

_August 17, 1808_

_Windsor Castle, England_

“You are not spending the night with Portugal?” The accent, thick, Spanish, practically unfurled in the air of the bedroom.

“Despite your green eyes, the shade of jealousy does not really favor anyone.” England arched a brow from the tall backed chair he lounged in.  Draped in a red silk nightshirt the blond nursed a pipe as he flicked through documents. “Englishmen are nothing but fair,” he continued, “I am helping you in this war am I not?” The blond tapped lightly at the smoking pipe in his hand before continuing to puff away at it. Between the pipe smoke, the few candles that had been snuffed the air in the room was quite hazy, adding its own compliments to the convoluted event.

“Englishmen, fair?” Antonio laughed from his spot beneath cotton sheets and four poster curtains. “You just want a piece of the Iberian Peninsula and another reason to argue with France.” Shuffling deeper into the abundance of pillows in the large bed the Spanish nation stretched with abandonment. 

“Now, never did I state that wasn't always the case.” Arthur glared at the Spaniard over the glasses perched on his nose. “Honestly, that's what you get for joining forces with that Frog in the first place. You should know better by now. Always expect a backstabbing with that one. 

You and France were only occupying Portugal for a year before he turned on you. And now look where it's gotten us. All wrapped up in a war whilst another has yet to end.”

“That’s your specialty isn't it though?” He reached for the glass of port on the nightstand with a yawn. “Being in multiple wars at once?” The Spanish man grinned. “And somehow still having the argument to-”

“And you still have the energy to be so crass,” he said flatly. England rolled his eyes, straightening in his chair as he dropped the documents back on the writing desk. “I am not the only one juggling more than one war, and I see that you may actually be in more wars than I am at the moment.” Antonio let out a groan, covering his eyes with his free arm.

“Ah yes,  _Guerra de la Independencia Española._ ” Antonio took a long draw on the port in his glass. “Damn that France.” The glass clicked on the table before rubbing furiously at his eyes. Flipping over the pipe England snuffed it out before pushing to his feet with a sigh. Grabbing at the edges, England pulled the nightshirt over his head, dropping it carefully over the chair’s back. Spain’s skin tone contrasted starkly with his own in the same manner that Portugal’s did. These wars with Napoleon and France had made such a mess of everything and was making for strange bedfellows. 

“Wars of... Independence are rather tedious aren’t they.” England drawled, lifting the blankets to slide back into his bed. “Now, I want to sleep.”

“You are being a right ass,” Antonio scoffed, rolling his eyes, but turning to the man nonetheless. 

“I did not hear any complaints after supper,” England shot back. This whole business had been a series of arguments. Vicente had outright refused to respect the Continental System. Antonio, on the other hand, allied with France and then decided his system wasn’t what he had in mind. Now they were in this blasted Peninsular War.  

Stretching out beneath the sheets, England reached out to snuff the candles on the bedside table. “Honestly, I said I wanted to sleep...” Green eyes rolled in mock annoyance as tan hands grabbed at him from the other side of the bed. 

***

Windsor Castle was already abuzz with servants attending their duties when England left Spain sleeping in his bed. The English army was to leave for Spain within less than a week. He didn’t have time to lounge the day away in bed like the Spaniards. His day promised to be full of paperwork and tired eyes. It was just after sunrise and yet the castle already began to warm. 

“Arthur! Do wait up Arthur!” 

“Elizabeth.” The high voice was unmistakable and when Arthur turned around he was greeted with the sight of Charlotte and George’s seventh child, third daughter. With skirts gathered she hurried down the hall. “I was certain you would be taking your breakfast? Or in the gardens if you decided not to eat.” Offering his hand he took a smaller one in his own when she got to his side. 

“I already ate, and I’m waiting on Fredrick. He promised to walk me around. But you know how terribly slow he is in the mornings.”

“So you came to walk with me?” Arching a brow, he led her down the hall continuing his walk towards his study. 

“Well, no.” She shook her head. “Actually, I ran into one of your friends this morning. Apparently, he arrived with the tide and is in the breakfast hall looking for you.”

“A friend?” Brow furrowing England racked his brain. By friend, he was certain that Elizabeth was referring to another nation. However, Antonio was asleep in bed. France certainly wasn't  here and Portugal had been pouting in his guest chambers all the while Spain had been in the castle at Windsor as well. “Well, this is certainly a surprise,” he voiced giving her a smile.

“He’s a rather gay individual. Very spritely,” Elizabeth mused as they changed directions. 

“You seem very charmed by him.” Arthur smiled. “However, I fear that you will not be able to attend breakfast with us as another meal would make you late for your walk with Frederick,” he announced gesturing to the prince who approached them. Releasing her hands England waved the two young monarchs off with a smile and rather than continuing straight into the gardens as they did Arthur turned the corner, heading for the dining hall.  His mind running over everything happening in Europe, coupled with Elizabeth’s description of the visiting party, he had a good guess on who his guest was. Nodding to the two men standing at the door he strode through them a smile, rarely seen those days, lifted his face. “You really should send message ahead of you, Feliks.” 

“You should sense my presence coming your way, Arthur!” Poland pushed up from the chair, arms wide, performing an overdone bow with flourish.

“Yes, do forgive me.” Arthur shook his head in amusement and opened his arms as well, accepting the hug that Feliks gave him. At least in public the longer haired blond was slightly subdued. In private, however, that was another story. Relations between their two countries had been amicable ever since they had started interacting, and despite lack of communication, the other nation had been a silent pillar of support when he was battling America. 

“Good, let’s eat. I have much to discuss with you.”

***

_Summer 1809_

_York, Canada_

Canada wasn’t opening the door again. It was always a gamble. Sometimes he came to the door, and sometimes he pretended he wasn’t there. America wasn’t buying it this time. He had seen him go inside. Unless Canada was climbing out a window somewhere, he’d have to let him in. America banged on the door a few more times. “C’mon Canada!” The door opened so abruptly, America nearly hit Canada in the face with the next knock. 

Canada straightened his glasses, looking startled. “America.” 

“Were you sleeping or something?”

“Not exactly.” Canada rubbed at his cheek, still holding the door halfway closed, his body blocking the opening.

America fidgeted on his stoop. “Are you going to let me in?” 

Canada pushed his glasses up his nose. “We really shouldn’t be talking to each other. I think we should stop... you know, what we’re doing...”

“Why?” asked America, frowning.

“England’s getting suspicious. It’s not like his ships don’t still come into my ports. They see your ships here and, well, word gets around.” Canada stuck his head out into the street and looked back and forth.

“You think he’s spying on you? He never told you that you couldn’t talk to me and it’s not illegal for us to trade, not from his end.”

Canada sighed, leaning on the door frame. “It is from your end.”

“I don’t care.”

“America, laws are meant to be followed, not dodged until you get caught.” Despite his words he opened the door wider when America held up the satchel he’d brought. Seizing the opportunity, America pushed into the door, walking deeper into the house with Canada on his heels. It didn’t take long until Canada had banished America into a chair in the kitchen while he made them something to eat. He was operating in stony silence, and America tried to think of things to fill it. Nothing was the same anymore. The weather was safe. Harvests were safe. Trade was not safe. Damnation, why did he think about trade?! 

“So...” America began, trying to decide how best to approach on the question. However, the question didn’t want to wait for a tactful delivery. “So... have you heard anything from England? He wrote back to me a few times and--”

Canada slammed the stack of dishes he’d been carrying onto the table. They hit with a clink, punctuating the glare he offered America over the wooden surface. “We are _not_ going to talk about your problems with England. It’s the only conversation I ever have with him these days and you always end up there. America, you need to find a better way to air your grievances and... whatever it is that’s happening between the two of you.”

“I did get him to talk to me...”

Canada threw up his hands. “We can literally talk about anything else. How about that trip you took with Mr. Pike before you got yourself all stirred up about England and your ships.” Canada turned his back on him, going back to his cooking.

America narrowed his eyes, watching Canada’s back. How did he even know about that?! Officially, it was just an exploration, nothing more. At least that’s what he told himself and it was the version Zebulon Pike was most insistent about. Now that England wasn’t a go-between anymore, there had been many more opportunities to speak to the members of the Spanish and Portuguese Empires, even other South American countries that had maintained some independence to themselves. The lands between him and the Pacific were beautiful, not to mention contested territory. He owned the vaguely outlined Louisiana territory thanks to France. England and Russia claimed different parts of the western coast. Spain still controlled the southwest of the continent. The native nations didn’t exactly talk to him. Who had told Canada!? “Did Mexico say something to you? He can’t possibly still be upset, it was an accident! I told Spain it was nothing.”

“It’s not nothing to end up hundreds of miles into someone else’s territory.” Canada brought the food over and they began filling their plates. 

“I do that with you all the time,” mumbled America, after stuffing a roll in his mouth. 

“I know you, and by the way it irritates me when you do that,” said Canada. America shrugged. “Besides, what is Mexico supposed to think? That you’re surveying _his_ lands for _his_ benefit?”

“That’s the thing though, those lands belong to Spain right now,” said America, thinking of a way to change the subject. He grinned. “You know... Mexico’s thinking of declaring independence from Spain.”

Canada carefully schooled his features. 

“You could join us, cast off the European powers... I’d help you.”

Canada pushed around his food on his plate for a moment. America leaned on his elbows, watching him. Canada took a deep breath, and said, “Yet, just a few minutes ago you were complaining that your economy has failed all because England won’t listen to you. You may have a new president that asserts different opinions than Mr. Jefferson, but are you really independent, America?” 

America winced. “Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? President Madison is just speaking his mind. That wasn’t fair.”

“When has it ever been fair?” asked Canada, setting his fork and knife on his plate. America braced himself, Canada was about to say something he wasn’t going to like, he could feel it. “Besides, is my independence really what you want?” 

That wasn’t what he expected. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

Canada looked down at his plate, folding his hands. “It’s not like it’s a secret that you want my lands. You asked England for them after the war.”

America frowned. “I wanted us to be together. Why bring it up now?”

“Because...” Canada paused, his brow furrowing, “I don’t think you’ve let it go, and now your designs have expanded to Mexico, too. You want us to be part of you.”

America took a long draw from his cup, buying some time. It was a nice idea, after all, North America under one banner. He was the first one to be independent, he should get to be the leader. It was only logical. England had always said... shit, he didn’t want to think about England. He was doing this _his_ way! “Think about it! From sea to shining sea! From the Arctic to the south! We can throw the European powers out altogether! We’d be something the world has never seen before, even if Mexico isn’t for it... think about it Canada! Between us, we’d have more land than England or any of the others could even dream about! There’s so many resources out there, the future would be... would be...” He waved his arms, America couldn’t even find words to articulate it. Perhaps there weren’t even words, yet! He reached across the table and gripped Canada’s forearm. 

Carefully, Canada pulled from his grip, his face blank. He picked up his table knife and poked at the food on his plate. America watched the flash of silver in his hand. What was he thinking? Canada stood up, clattering the knife onto the wooden table. He paced, once twice, nearly tripped over the white bear that had taken to living inside his house. He chewed on his lip. America went back to eating, Canada could be so slow sometimes!

It was several minutes before he spoke again. “America, I think you need to leave. Please.”

Looking up from his seconds, America stared at him. “What? Why?” he asked.

“You’re sitting at my kitchen table talking about how you want to conquer me and you think I want to hear about it? Anything you say from this moment on, I’m sorry, but I _will_ tell England about.”

America stood up, his chair scraping across the floor. Canada flinched. What was he doing that for? America thought. Did he think he would hurt him? America crossed his arms. “If it wasn’t for England, this wouldn’t be a problem.” 

Canada didn’t say anything. The expression on his face changed, the one where he’d withdrawn, the face that told America that the conversation was pretty much over. With a huff, America began gathering his things, Canada following him through the house to the door. 

“I’m going! Why should I have expected anything else? You chose him the last time, too.”

Canada looked startled. “Fighting him now would be suicide. You can’t possibly be planning another war! Tell me that’s just rhetoric!” Canada grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him back, but America shrugged him off. He didn’t have to explain himself to him.

“Like you care.” Before Canada could think of anything to reply, America had pulled the door shut behind him and stalked off towards the ferry that would take him back to Detroit. 

Canada was being an idiot. It was the British upper class in his cities that were going to be the real problem of his liberation. America was figuring out how to work with the French-Americans down in Louisiana. It didn’t always go great, but he hoped that he’d eventually get it right. It would be fine with Canada, too! He’d come around if only England wasn’t in the way! If only England wasn’t doing his damndest to be a problem! Was he always so petty?!

Maybe they were right, President Madison and those stirring for a renegotiation. Maybe a declaration of war would be just what England needed.

***

_October 1809_

_London, England_

England tapped his foot. Watching the ocean made him itchy to get back on it, however, there was nothing for it. If he wanted to make his mark as a force to be reckoned with on land, he would not just be able to spend all his time at sea. The ship had pulled in, but were still readying for the passengers to disembark.

“Matthew!” he said, raising his hand when he appeared at the top of the gangplank. Canada’s eyes widened as he looked for who had called his name and then a small smile of relief graced his face. He hurried, his satchel slung over his shoulder, into England’s arms. 

“I was worried about you,” said Canada, hugging England fiercely. 

“Whatever for? I have been quite all right. Besides babysitting Antonio and Vicente.” Shaking his head in disapproval, Arthur stepped back, grasping the younger by his forearms and sizing him up. “You are growing like a weed!” he commented in disbelief, smiling. “I guess there is no need to chastising you about eating properly. Regarding that, it's getting later in the day.  How does supper sound? Even if you say no, I am afraid I was swindled into meeting up with another close friend while he is in London. I told him that Milk-Street sounded perfect. Their smoking room is one of the best in the city.” 

“Supper would be wonderful, as long as it’s not fish,” replied Canada, smiling back. England wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him into the bustle of London towards the social club. 

“Well, you are in luck because they are not known for their ocean cuisine, but rather boiled beef.” He smiled and gave a nod at two woman passing them by smiling. The two women smiled, giggling behind their hands, whispering to each other. “I think the brunette in the purple fancied you, Matthew.” He gave the boy a smile as the walked up a set of steps and entered into a dinner club made of brick with colored glass. A host greeted them at the door. “We are meeting a Master Łukasiewicz.” The name came off his tongue smoothly and the man nodded. 

“Ah, yes.” With a gesture, the man lead them to tables that were set in a private section.

“Arthur.” standing up Feliks grinned, one hand settling on his hip. “That must make you Matthew.”

Surprise showed on Canada’s face. He’d been sheltered for so long, England thought, only France, America, himself and then recently his three brothers. England had decided it was time to expand his acquaintances. He gave Canada a pat on the shoulder, pushing him forward a little to remind him of his manners. “Ah, yes, I’m Matthew. It’s nice to meet you.” Canada bowed a little, a little provincial, but fairly well at any rate. 

“I wish you a good evening, as you English say. Życzę miłego wieczoru. Feliks Łukasiewicz ” looking over their shoulders to make sure they were alone at the moment before leaning in to say quietly, “Poland.”  He gestured to the chairs. Taking their seats it took no time before refreshments were delivered to the table and they were left for a moment of privacy. “I've heard a fair amount about you Matthew” Feliks smiled running his hands through his hair “Although, that is no surprise. I am privy to all the latest gossip.”

“Might as well be the biggest of your trades,” Arthur commented dryly.

Matthew looked at him curiously, “What have you heard about me?”

“Wellllllll...” Feliks laughed as Arthur shot him a warning glance. “All right, all right. No tall tales. Honestly, most of the chatter has died down over the last couple of years. The amount of stories in the letters I received whilst he was still raising you two, might as well have been raising you myself. Toris and I had stacks and stacks of parchments. We probably could have kept the hearth burning everyday during the cold seasons.” He grinned wickedly at Arthur. “Though I still can’t decide. Toris said Alfred wet the bed more. Although, sorry boy, but I felt that was you!”

“Feliks!” Arthur gaped at the Polish nation before shooting an apologetic glance at Matthew. 

Canada blushed, but smiled nonetheless. “It’s nice to think about when we were small...” He trailed off, looking at England.  The younger nation paused, as if contemplating what to say. “Um... if you don’t mind me asking, who is Toris?”

“Who’s Toris?” Feliks blinked furiously at the youngest nation before laughing, “Ah yes, of course you would have no clue who Liet is.” he smiled fondly, “Toris Laurinaitis. The personification of Lithuania. Someday you’ll meet him. He is perfect, you two shall get along fine.”

“Of course” Matthew commented quietly. What was one to say after that? Turning his attention back to Arthur he returned to the previous conversation “Actually, speaking of Alfred...” He stopped, glancing at Poland as though he weren’t sure whether he should speak. 

“It’s fine.” Arthur nodded, lifting his glass he exchanged a look with Poland. “What has he done now?”

“I... well, I’m concerned that he plans to invade me. I doubt he put that in the letters he says he’s been writing to you. I... I thought you should know.” Canada looked down at the table. “I know that you are busy... France...” Canada blushed and was quiet as the food arrived. 

“To invade you?” Arching his brow England gave the boy a look as he picked up a knife and fork. “I have not had the time to even cast a glance at his letters. His first couple were nothing but unprofessional complaints rather than how he should speak with a foreign nation.” He shook his head, cutting into his beef. A brief silence fell over the table, broken only by the clinking of dishware and utensils. “Whatever would make you think such a thing?”

Canada’s flush deepened and he didn’t answer for a few minutes. “His leaders are divided over what they want to do about the matter of impressment, and many of them don’t exactly keep it quiet that they want me. And... well, he told me how much he wants me to join him.”

Poland laughed. “That sounds worthy of that bastard Prussia, to announce an invasion before it happens.”

“Well, have you told him that you have absolutely not interested?” Arthur frowned, waving for another ale. “Of course, the boy is more likely to ignore you than anything else. Nations with that strong of a head and... ambition don’t care.”

“You got that right.” Feliks commented tightly and Arthur shot him a look of apology 

“Ivan and Alfred do have things in common. I recoil at the thought should they ever become friendly with one another.” 

“If that is the case than Matthew has a right to be worried.” Feliks looked at Matthew with a frown. At the mention of Ivan, Feliks face darkened considerably. 

“Ivan?” Matthew questioned. 

“Ivan Braginski. Russia. A-” Feliks exhaled, “A real piece of work that one. Ty ośle.”

“Though not exactly the same.” Arthur commented after their waiter left once more. “So has he just expressed a want to join... or to seriously invade you?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when he’s serious. He’s been exploring his new lands and telling me a lot of stories. He had a bit of a run-in with Mexico by traveling too far south. He says he settled it with Spain, but I don’t know if that’s true.” Matthew pushed some of the food around on his plate. “It’s just, the last time he took issue with you, he came after me first. I’m closest and he... well, he’s still not over the fact that I chose to fight with you.”

“Ah.” Arthur put his glass down with a shake of his head. “One would think that now that he's ‘independent’ I wouldn’t have to deal with his tantrums but I guess that I was terribly wrong.” He shook his head again, raising his hand for his pipe to be lit, Feliks following suit.  “And what would you have me do?”

“Maybe you could talk to him?” 

“T-” Arthur snorted, covering his mouth as he laughed. “Oh, why would you even think that was a good idea, Matthew.” England shook his head as he lit his pipe “Why ever do you think that, that the boy would listen to me? Do you hear yourself?” He gave him a look of disbelief.

Canada’s brow furrowed, biting his lip, but England could tell what he was really doing was biting his tongue. If only America had learned that. He’d have to teach it to Australia before the boy got too big. “In that case, I would appreciate additional Regulars. I know you’re quite busy with France, but well, my militias... I don’t know if all of my people will stay loyal to you. America doesn’t think so and I... it’s still confusing sometimes where he ends and I begin, especially around the Great Lakes.”

“Your people won't-” England’s lip curled in distaste, ignoring the warning sound from Feliks. “Of course I'll send troops Matthew,” he said cooly, “Need to make sure that my citizens remember who their King is.” He leaned back, taking to his pipe in an agitated manner, missing the alarmed look his close friend sent his colony. 

“Thank you.” said Canada, quietly. They ate in silence for several minutes, until Poland began fidgeting in his seat. “Mr. Poland, maybe you could tell me more about your country? I heard Mr. France...” He trailed off again, glancing nervously at England.

“How about later.” England interrupted. “Here, let's have a pipe lit for you as well.” Feliks grinned and waved for a waiter.

***

_December 6, 1811_

_Dear England,_

_I suppose I should make some sort of overture about the upcoming holiday, but I don’t think I feel like wishing you well, when you certainly don’t extend such feelings towards me. I want to know what you mean by arming Tecumseh so that he can fight me. I’m hoping that we can talk openly and honestly about this._

_You used to tell me things. I remember._

_I told you a few years ago that I won’t let you walk all over me and I mean it. If you keep provoking me, well, you know what happens. I don’t want to fight you, but I will. If you would just stop with the impressment of my sailors and leave me to my own devices, I’d be content to let bygones be bygones._

_I matter as much as any of the rest of them._

_Don’t force my hand._

_Sincerely,_

_America_

***

_February 5, 1811_

_England_

“Do you think Amelia would be proud?” George’s nervous voice drew England’s attention. The blond nation turned his attention from the window where he had been staring out at the grounds. The Prince of Wales was fidgeting as his servants worked over the details of his clothing. 

“That you are taking the position of regent in your father’s stead due to ill health? Of course, she would have,” he said firmly, turning to face the young monarch. George IV had taken his little sister's death harder than any of the other siblings England would dare say. Amelia had, after all, been the baby of the family. George IV had even requested a death mask of Amelia before her burial. She had passed on Prince Edward's birthday just four months ago in November. England was confident that her death was the last strike that had finally solidified George III’s spiral down into madness. Thus, Parliament had passed the Regency Act of 1811, and now George III would no longer have the power to hold council, and George IV would do so in his stead. 

“Of course, of course.” George sighed, watching the servants, pinning and fussing. “At least my father's ministers will remain, and they are convenient when it comes to government affairs.”

“Yes, they are there to aid you. Aid,” England repeated. Everyone at court was well aware of the Regent’s taste in fashion and the upcoming world. He was much more flamboyant than his predecessors, and it caused England some concern. 

“You seem stressed.” George IV commented, waving off the servants and their fussing. The Prince of Wales joined him at the window, grasping the blond nation’s shoulder in a reassuring motion. 

“Yes.”

“And… are you going to tell me? Or are you going to act like Elizabeth or Mary? Wave your fan and wait until I can read your mind.” George grinned, laughing as Arthur scowled at him in distaste before he relented. 

“Oh you know, just worried about a war with those blasted Americans. I am also concerned about what is going to happen with the Catholics. The shift as you step in as Regent.” He shook his head. 

George eyed the personified nation, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. “You have been fighting with Alfred again.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that we are fighting. I just only opened all of America's letters last night. And I have yet to respond. And to fight means that both parties must be having actual conflicts with one another.” England muttered.  “I am also concerned that France may be wishing to go to war again... I just have a feeling that everything is about to get much worse.”

***

_November 1811_

_London, England_

“I told you that you could not leave everything for your father’s ministers to handle!”

“They are _my_ ministers, Arthur!”

“Obviously not, George! For a King works with his ministers and I have yet to see you do anything besides pawn of your work on them! You have allowed the Prime Minister to do as he pleases! The Luddites have been burning machinery and physically displaying their distaste for the economic state!”

“We are in the middle of a war! What would you have me do about that!? Surrender?”

“Of course we aren’t surrendering to France!”

“Then whatever the fuck am I supposed to do!?”

“Maybe if you had paid more attention we could have had it solved by now! ‘Two heads are better than one.’” 

“You attend all of the meetings! What more is another going to do? ‘But ten heads without wit, I were as good none!’”

“Do you realize you just called all of the Parliament, me, and yourself, daft!”

“Fine! If you're going to go all smarmy on me ‘Therfore two are better than one, for they maye well enioye the profit of their laboure.’ ”

“Oh do not go quoting Ecclesiastes at me! As if you have the right to say such a thing when you left Perceval to have his way with the Catholic Emancipation! Maybe if you had spent more time with your ministers that wouldn’t also be a problem!”

“And why are you so upset!? I did not know you had particular feelings about the Roman Catholics.”

“I don’t! But they are people in your kingdom! So, of course, there is a concern!”

“Then why does this even matter-”

“I don't even know if I am Catholic or Protestant! That's why it bugs me!” Slamming his hands down on the table England glared hotly across its top at his monarch who was glowering at him with equal intensity. The room was silent except heavy breathing and the chatter of the fireplace as it helped chase away the bitter cold of November.  

“Honestly,” The young monarch dropped into his chair with a huff. “It's not like you to get worked up in such a manner.”

“The Luddites are becoming increasingly violent. Nottinghamshire is becoming a place that is debatably unsafe. And I am worried that other citizens may get caught up inside of their anger.”

“How so? They only attack mills and factory machinery that have replaced their livelihood. There is not even a national organization formed. And there has been no sign of one coming about. Do not give me that look. Just because I don’t attend every meeting that you do does not mean that I am oblivious to what is going on in my country. Or even outside of our borders. I highly doubt that it is the Catholics or the Luddites that have you up in such a tizzy. It's the Americans. Him and the fact that his country is talking of war with much more fervor than earlier in the year. That is what has you all worked up.”

“I highly doubt you’ll think me worked up when a declaration of war arrives on our doorstep.”

“And how are you so certain one will? Can you see the future now?”

“Despite America’s claims. I know him a bit more than he thinks I do.”

***

_June 18, 1812_

_Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That war be and is hereby declared to exist between the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and the dependencies thereof, and the United States of America and their territories; and that the President of the United States is hereby authorized to use the whole land and naval force of the United States to carry the same into effect, and to issue to private armed vessels of the United States commissions or letters of marque and general reprisal, in such form as he shall think proper, and under the seal of the United States, against the vessels, goods, and effects of the government of the said United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and the subjects thereof._

“What did I tell you, George?” England watched over the young monarch's shoulder as he read the letter, Parliament hovering around them like a group of vultures to carrion. 

“Shall we send one back?”

“No. That would be foolish. Childish. He needn't have bothered. His ‘war hawks’ finally succeeded in pushing for the invasion of Canada. I don’t doubt that we shall receive Canada’s letter on the morning tide,” England said quietly. An uncomfortable silence fell over the meeting room. “Troops need to be sent over to remove the American filth from our lands.” He continued and quill hit parchment with record speed. “If this bastard infant of a nation wishes to anger us once more, then they shall have it. No more bounds of familial care or worries shall hinder us this time. The American nation now assaults us as a foreign and enemy power. And our disgust and hatred of such an upstart will fly as high as our banners. I shall sail with the next ship with troops from the harbor.”

“Arthur.”

“I will sail for Canada.”

“Arthur-”

“We are once again at war. And once again I will take to the sea.” England cast a hard gaze at the Parliament and his Regent Prince. “We do not have time for this war. So I suggest we settle this quickly.”

“You shall be sending supplies and they go alone. You need to remain here.”

England stopped in his tracks, whirling on the monarch. “Your majesty!?”

“I need you here.” George said firmly. The regent prince never commanded Arthur to do anything. But Arthur knew that if pushed far enough the boy would. And from the look on his face it would not take much. With a slump of his shoulders England stepped back in resignation.

“As you wish.”


	3. This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America invades Canada and is in for a bit of a surprise. England is neck deep in the Peninsular War and just waiting for his chance to punch France again. In the meantime, he is certain he can find some amusements.

_July 1812_

_Sandwich, Canada_

_Canadian side of the Detroit River_

America stepped off the boat, the small stones on the edge of the lake rolling beneath his boots. He adjusted his musket on his shoulder, feeling an uncomfortable sense of deja vu. He’d been here before, just like this, about to ask Canada the same question again. 

Except, this time he had a feeling he already knew what Canada would say and he couldn’t let it stand. Not this time. 

Upper Canada never felt that different, after all, it was mostly populated by people who used to belong to him. The question of the border was hazy at best, they might as well still be his after all. This part of Canada would turn out, he was sure of it. It was the part that whispered in the back of Canada’s mind and told him to listen. America hoped he would hear him out. Maybe the part of him that was French would listen to him, too. The rest was pure England and that was just a lost cause. Canada was going to come to his side this time, whether he wanted to or not. That was just how it was going to be. The only question was what he was going to be. A state? A colony? Or a bargaining chip to get England to listen?

Well, that depended on him, America thought. After all, the campaign was off to a great start. Not a single Canadian had done anything to stop them crossing the river. The flag had gone up in the center of town in no time at all. 

“It looks well doesn’t it, on his Majesty’s domain?” said Lieutenant Wallace, General Hull’s aide-de-camp. America grinned at him. “By the way, General Hull has drafted a proclamation and he wanted you to read it.”

“Sure, let me see it.” America took the paper offered to him and walked towards the edge of the town. He looked off into the trees. In the shadows it was easy to imagine Tecumseh’s warriors, waiting to fight him on behalf of England. He didn’t really understand why, England wasn’t all that fair to them either. He remembered a day long ago when he’d seen that other nation, one far older than him, that told him to look away. Idly, he wondered if he was still out there somewhere. Then he shook his head. He knew at least one other nation that was out there. Canada. He had to know America was here by now! 

Leaning on the side of the little house, America looked over the words that had been written.

_Inhabitants of Canada! You will be emancipated from tyranny and oppression and restored to the dignified station of freemen. Had I any doubt of eventual success I might ask your assistance, but I do not. I come prepared for every contingency._

America frowned a little, he’d rather Canada help him out, but maybe General Hull was right. He didn’t need him, not really. Expecting him to fight against England might be too much... after all, he’d not been able to hold to it before.

No matter his answer. Finding Canada was going to be the most important thing to do. He hurried back into the town. He needed to find him. He was coming with him whether he wanted to or not.

***

_July 18, 1812_

_Orebro, Sweden_

England was the only one in the room when he entered with a folder tucked under his arm. “Well, I know that I am early, but I did not think that I was that early,” he muttered to himself. 

The room was furnished with artful, hand-tooled furniture and decorative glass trinkets that sparkled brightly with the morning sun pouring through the window. Walking through the chamber, he admired the handiwork. Upon meeting the personification of Sweden, most would be filled with disbelief that the silent and rather intimidating man would be capable of such craftsmanship. Grasping the folder, he placed it on the table and pulled out two documents, spacing them out next to two of the three quill sets on the table. Two treaties. One for each of the countries that were going to be there, two unabridged versions of the Treaty of Orebro: 

_TREATY of Peace, Union, and Friendship, between His Britannic Majesty and the King of Sweden_

_TREATY of Peace, Union, and Friendship, between His Britannic Majesty and the Emperor of all the Russias_

“Good morning, England.” The low voice caught his attention. Turning, Arthur saw that Sweden had entered. The Nord, Berwald Oxenstierna, was very tall with short blond hair and greenish-blue eyes. If one thought about it, he very much resembled the German brothers. He’d had a hand in making America as well.

“Good morning, Sweden.”

“You are here early.”

“My apologies,  after I awoke this morning I could not fall back asleep. I figured I might as well start the day.”

“No apologies necessary.” The big nation sat down in one of the tall chairs and England followed suit. With large hands Sweden pulled one of the documents towards him, eyes gliding over the scrawled handwriting. “Two years is a short war.” Sweden’s deep voice rumbled around the room.

“Thankfully, a bloodless war.”

“Bloodless war. An oxymoron, _da_?” The comment came from the doorway and the pair looked up. 

“One _could_ make that statement.” England responded lightly as he took in the sight of the silver haired nation. The statement bloodless came out as ‘ploodless’ with the country's accent. Ivan Braginski was a curious nation, and England made sure to be wary of him. An uncomfortable air surrounded Russia, and England was confident that the vast nation would become rather influential shortly. He’d certainly grown a lot under Catherine II. The woman had been a force of nature. England would ask if Russia missed her, but it felt far too familiar for their status as “not currently enemies.”

“ _Da_.” Ivan responded, settling into the third straight backed chair at the table and reached for the unattended document. “This be it? This gets signed, and then we are done?”

“That is the idea,” Sweden commented, reaching for the quill. There were always two sets of documents for government affairs. Both of them were signed by the government officials, and one set had the nations sign the second document as if to solidify not only the state, but the people's emotions as well. 

“Could ours be considered so simple, Britain?”  

“I suppose not,” England said slowly, considering the Russian’s cold smile. “We did have our naval battles, though they remained minor.”

“That they did.” Ivan’s smile never faltered as he turned to read over the document. 

“Well, at least this was a quick one,” Sweden announced, his chair making no sound as he pushed it back across the carpet to get to his feet. “Now I take it you shall be more preoccupied with other wars as is the nature of the modern world it seems. I shall see you two at dinner if what my minister says is true.”

“Of course.” England nodded with a smile. With that, and a nod of confirmation from Russia, the Nordic nation exited the room. Silence returned. However, without Sweden in the room it took on an icy edge. 

“So, I hear that you are once again on violent terms with America.” Russia broke the silence.

“I am sure everyone has heard of it,” England commented dryly, arms crossing tightly across his chest. 

“He has grown very fast.”

“I guess so.”

“Could be a challenge.”

“Miracles happen.”

“I am most interested in getting to know him better.”

“I don’t see why.” England’s voice sharpened as violet eyes locked on his. England didn’t particularly like Russia. He wasn’t sure that anyone did. 

“I think America and I are going to be great friends.” A sharp glint entered Russia’s eyes, and England got to his feet as the atmosphere tightened. For such a young nation, in regards to others, the wintery personification was relentless and harsh with his pursuits. 

“I am not sure what you mean by “friends”, and using your previous and current interactions with countries I am not sure you even know what the term truly means.”

“I suppose the term you might use is ‘conquest.’”

“I shall make one thing clear, Ivan.” Placing his hands upon the light spruce table he leaned across it. “I am not Feliks. You may be harassing Toris at the moment out of amusement in your effort to annoy him.” His eyes narrowed. “But I am not Feliks, and any nation would be daft to actually anger me. Actually stupid,” he said quietly. “I suggest you think this through carefully. Finish signing that and I shall see you at dinner.” 

Straightening, England nodded at the Russian man who simply stared coldly back at him. Turning, England left the room.  

***

_August 1812_

_Detroit, Michigan Territory_

America rolled the quill in his fingers, watching the ink fly from the tip and drip all over the desk and the roughly drawn map he’d made. He didn’t care. A retreat was not what he had planned at all! Hull had completely blundered things at Fort Malden. Overland battles weren’t going to be enough...

Sending the declaration of war to England had felt like swallowing ice. It had slipped into his stomach and spread through his veins, making him jittery and unable to turn his hand to any one thing. His Regular Army was still small, although Congress had set aside more money to hire and train soldiers. The navy was the part that was worrisome. England had eighty-five ships of the line off the coast. He only had twenty-two. He’d needed France’s navy before, but with England smashing it to splinters elsewhere in the world... Anyway, he couldn’t rely on him, not after he refused to help in the French revolution and was still trying to dodge France’s Milan decree. America bit the inside of his cheek. If it wasn’t for those stupid decrees, none of this would be happening! 

A knock came at the door. “Come in.” The door opened then closed again, but America could barely hear the footsteps. He rubbed at his cheek with the end of the quill, trying to decide what he could do. If only he had more ships!

“America.” He knocked over the ink bottle in his haste to turn around. 

“Canada!” His brother stood near the door, his face thinner, but still nearly identical. America got out of the chair and walked over to him. Canada flinched away when America tried to hug him, stepping around him and walking further in the room. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know. I didn’t want you to find me.”

“You always were better at hide and seek.” America laughed. Canada didn’t. “If you didn’t want me to find you, why did you come to Detroit?” 

“I...” Canada began. Another knock on the door and America opened it. A soldier handed him a stack of letters tucked on top of a newspaper. He took them back to his desk, beginning to sift through them. He flipped open the newspaper. “America, I came here to say--”

America stood up, knocking over his chair. “I did it!” He brandished the newspaper at Canada, who looked startled.

“Did what?”

“Look, the _USS Constitution_ met the _HMS Guerriere_ and sank her! The British commander struck his colors!” 

Canada’s eyes widened and he grabbed the newspaper, skimming the headline himself. “You won a battle against the British Navy?!”

“It’ll get his attention, surely.”

Canada’s face fell. “America...”

He began to pace, thinking of what a victory like this could mean. England was always so sure of his strength. He had been gathering power, and acted like he was invincible. This proved that he wasn’t. Just like when everyone didn’t believe in him before, he could do it again. “I need to build more ships! I should get back to Boston...”

“America!” Canada caught him, grabbing him by the shoulders. America blinked at him. “You need to listen to me. Sit down, will you? I need you to stop.” Confused, but curious, America let Canada direct him back towards the desk, his brother claiming the extra chair from the corner. He gripped America’s hands and America felt unease stir in his stomach. 

“What?” he said, not sure now if he wanted to hear what Canada had to say.

“If you value your freedom, you have to stop this war. I’ve been to see him and...”

“You saw England.”

“America, focus on what I’m saying. He’s planning to invade France soon. When he’s finished with him he’ll be able to turn and make an example of you. I’ve been reinforced, I... he’s changed and you don’t mean to him what you once did. This won’t make him see you or respect you anymore.”

“Did you not read the paper? I bested a British ship of the line. How many nations can claim that?”

Canada shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”

“Then surrender to me, then he’ll have to negotiate with me to get you back.”

“I can’t just roll over for you. Did you not hear me? He’s sent reinforcements, the red coats are here to hold you off so that you can be dealt with when he’s done with France, don’t you get it?”

“You mean he’s treating me like leftovers still! I’m going to make him regret it.” 

“You’re not listening. You’re thinking of England as he was forty years ago. Now, he has one of the largest armies in the world. He has the largest navy. This fight with France has made him short with his temper and... I don’t know, prouder than he was before. You’re accusing him of not acting honorably and he’s going to resent it!”

“He’s _not_ acting honorably. If he would just come talk to me, maybe we could call this off.”

“I tried. He said the idea was preposterous.”

America threw up his hands. “What am I supposed to do then? Your lands are His Majesty’s lands. You’re Crown property and therefore I have to take you. He can’t claim to not want to have a war when he won’t bend an inch. That’s not negotiating.”

“So you’ll burn me to the ground to get back at him?”

“I haven’t burned you to the ground.”

“Not yet.” 

America sighed, standing up from seat and wrapping his arms around his brother. Canada stiffened, but didn’t pull away. They stood quietly for a few minutes, Canada finally looping an arm around America’s back and holding him back. America pressed his face into Canada’s shoulder. “I don’t want to fight him, again.”

“I know. So, why are you?”

“Congress declared war, I have no choice. Mr. Madison’s War they’re calling it. I can’t exactly call it off without a peace treaty. That’s not how it works. I can’t offer him one either, because it’ll make me look weak.”

“He probably wouldn’t take it anyway... he’s trying to gain influence.” America pulled back, leaning his forehead on Canada’s, the other’s glasses pushing against the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t think... you don’t think he’d use this as an excuse to try and reconquer me?” he whispered, the fear settling into his very bones now that they’d been spoken aloud. Canada didn’t look surprised, he must have thought the very same thing.

“I don’t know. What will you do if that’s the case?”

“Fight him with everything I have.”

***

_August 12,  1812_

_Madrid, Spain_

“Here I am saving your ass, again.” England sat on the window ledge smoking his pipe as daylight was exchanged for oil lighting in homes, creating little pockets of warmth amongst stone buildings. No place would be as beautiful as his London. But with the sun sinking down below the horizon washing the spanish architecture in a warm pink-orange glow, England couldn’t help but stop and admire the city's beauty.

“You say that as if I am always needing you to save me, _mi amigo_.”

“My friend, is it?” England commented in amusement as Spain joined him at the window to gaze out at the sights. “And honestly, I feel as if that may be the truth, as I have just finished liberating Madrid this afternoon.” He arched a brow at the brunette.

“Don’t even give me that look, _Inglaterra_ , you were more than excited about giving _Francia_ a good thrashing”

“That does always put me in a good mood.” England chuckled, tapping his pipe before taking a deep inhale. 

“Yes, Wellington did well.” The statement was punctuated with a closing of the door and two sets of green eyes flicking over to the newcomer. Portugal entered the room, a brief wrinkling of his nose as he eyed Spain. “Our Anglo-Portuguese army has done rather well at liberating your city, Antonio,” he tacked on, grabbing a chair and straddling it backwards next to England.  Spain opened his mouth as if to shoot back a scathing retort, but closed it with a warning look from England. A smug smile appeared on Spain’s face as he watched the Englishmen kick Vicente’s calf in admonishment. England sighed, it seemed Spain and Portugal would not be on good terms, despite their long history. England supposed that was what happened when one got into bed with their neighbor and their competition. Being conquered and then liberated always took some time to get over.

“And we thank the army for that,” Spain said, teeth gritted. 

“Yes, your people cheered quite loudly when we entered the city.”

“If you two are going to go at it all night then then I have half a mind to up and leave. If we are going to talk then it better be of actual importance or pleasantries,” England said flatly, handing his pipe to Vicente and pointing to the table. It had gone out. “If you would, please?”

“Or both.” Spain offered as Portugal moved to relight the pipe. “At least with the previous activities and now in July. With Madrid back in my control, _Francia_ has lost half of the territory he has taken since 1808, and it has all been done in eight months.” 

“But Arthur and I cannot continue to do all of the work, Antonio” Vicente popped up as he appeared at England’s shoulder handing him the pipe. “You will need to put troops up.”

“I know that,” Spain shot back, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

“And how many do you think that would be?” England asked, squeezing Portugal's knee in thanks as the nation sat down once again. Portugal had been growing more quickly in the last few decades, his face aging nearly as quickly as the younger nations that had popped up here and there. Being treated as a possession of Spain for some time had stunted his growth.

“Theoretically, I could put out one hundred thousand troops,” Spain said slowly. “But you also realize that my people were not cheering for you, nor for another chance fight the French. Rather, they cheered the food that you are bringing with you. Our last harvest was practically nonexistent.” He shook his head “With _Francia’s_ invasion and all of the problems with my colonies, the nation is financially stripped. My American colonies must be figured out if I wish to remain in the war.”

“So you are going to ask for British Subsidies I take it?” 

England sighed.

***

_August 24th, 1812_

_Madrid, Spain_

  
“Spain really is begging for more money,” England said, dropping the newest financial papers on the floor next to his bed in the guest room. He had been stuck in Madrid for two weeks, as reports rumored that France would be trying to once regain regain land in Spain. He had not planned to remain in the nation for this prolonged period. “I do not have the time to deal with this right now.” 

Rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes England let out a tired sigh.  Portugal loped across the room, where he had been at a small table, picking at food on a platter. Flopping down on his stomach next to Arthur he watched the blond for just a moment. The sun had long set, and the room was lit by lamps and yet Arthur had still continued with his paperwork. Portugal had told him earlier that he found it rather pointless. 

“Well that’s not exactly good news,” Portugal drawled, propping his chin on left arm while digging into his coat pocket on his right. “And I suppose this may be bad news and I might as well hand it over to keep up with the mood. Or it could be good news and turn the evening around.” Portugal pulled an envelope from his coat and handed it to England. The blond man grabbed at the letter in a hurry as he recognized the handwriting. 

“It's from Canada,” he muttered, breaking the seal and pulling out the paper. Eyes scanned the tidy scrawl across the paper and a grin lit up his face. “Ah ha!”

“So it is good news then?” Portugal rolled over on his back to look at the ceiling. 

“Very good news! America has suffered three losses at the hand of my troops. And he has lost Detroit! Apparently the boy has continued his attempts to take Canada from me but his assumptions have become his folly. From what Canada talks of America’s attitude, the little upstart had expected that the Canadian people would come to arms and fight for him, and they, in fact, have not.” He laughed, dropping his head back on the pillow. “Oh, by the King’s grace this is glorious.” He looked to Portugal, joy unfaltering. “This is the best news that I could have recieved before I leave for home tomorrow to consider the war with the Americans.” 

Portugal heaved a sigh of annoyance. “I was really hoping that you would change your mind and remain here in Europe. Especially with that letter in hand. It is obvious that Canada does not need your direct support, and he is the most docile of anyone I have heard of. His people do not succumb to the power hungry nature of their neighbor. Perhaps, America will think better of it and send you a peace treaty.”

“It may not necessary, but...” Holding it above their heads he pointed at a single line “See right there. There he has asked for me to come while this is happening. My presence would likely cause America to give it up all together.”

“And you must do this because? He is not your only obligation.” Portugal frowned, turning his head to look at his companion who stared up at the letter with a contemplative look upon his face. 

“No... but in the past... I have been asked an identical question and I was unable to arrive. This time, however, I can and I shall.” England said quietly. “This time I am not capturing the seas.” Memories flooded his mind. Badly scribbled letters, just barely legible. But legible enough to recognize their pleas. The pleas coming less and less as the handwriting grew easier and easier to make out. It had been a mistake, but not a mistake that was completely his fault. 

“So it is guilt?”

“Guilt... that's not what I would call it. Maybe regret? But even that is debateable. You can regret something even if it was not under your complete control. But does that invalidate it? Or does it strengthen it? Neutralize? And what purpose does it have? It's not like you can go back in the past and change it. Even with magic...” He shook his head. “I guess its purpose would be so that I do not face the same regret again, and that would be foolish of me to let regrets usefulness go unused.” 

“So that is why you are so enraptured with seeing all of this through. Despite everything going on here in Europe.”

“Partially.” England rubbed at his temple. “I am the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. A leader amongst nations of the world. I cannot simply have my attentions in only one place for things begin to slip and I cannot have that. I must remain vigilant. America is an up and coming nation, despite my distaste with the situation. Canada is family. I have the ability to aid him and so I shall.” He smiled tiredly at the ceiling. He blinked in quiet surprise as the letter was pulled from his hand.

“Now I think that is enough philosophical talk for one evening. Enough England and Portugal.” The portuguese nation folded the letter carefully. “You will be leaving me with the morning tide, and that is for who knows how long. For the rest of the night we shall be Vicente and Arthur.” Slipping the letter back into its envelope he placed in on the bedside, leaning over to blow out the candle in one move. _“Eu quero fazer amor contigo.”_

“We do tell the ladies to be careful of foreign lovers. Maybe I should take the advice myself.” England grinned. Quickened breaths, contradicting tired, half mast eyes as warm fingers made quick work of his collared nightshirt. The boy was much better at this than he had been thirty years ago. England remembered the fumbling, nervous nation who stuttered and second guessed his urges. 

Reaching up England wound his fingers through bark colored hair, pulling him down, mouth sliding against his own. It was ironic really that Vicente would use the phrase, ‘make love’ to him. Is that what he really thought that this was? Poor Portugal, but it seemed that this was to be another lesson he was going to have to teach a kingdom turned Spanish possession gone nation. Sliding down the boy's slender neck, tense shoulders, solid back, nimble fingers pinched at thin fabric, breaking their kiss as he pulled the shirt over Vicente's head. An expanse of tan skin became visible as Arthur's eyes adjusted to the streams of moonlight sashaying through the curtains and onto the bed. Pressing chapped lips together once more, hips arched as fingers, wrought with experience danced along tan hips. 

"Well, I guess Vicente shall have to keep Arthur preoccupied shan't he?" Thin lips curling in amusement as dynamic breaths fluttered against his mouth before capturing his once again. Perspiration gathering along skin, dampening sheets. Rather than growing quiet with the sunset, the noise increased with volume and actions took a unique fever all their own. 

England wasn’t sure what was about to happen in any of his wars, but he was certain of only one thing. 

Neither did America. 

And when the news arrived in the morning, England knew America would have to learn to wait his turn.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next:  
> \- America and Canada wound each other in ways they never thought they could.  
> \- England gets his opportunity to knock France off his perch as the so-called ruler of Europe.
> 
> If you've been enjoying our story, please let us know with a kudo or a comment!


	4. It rolls downhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War of 1812 intensifies as the Napoleonic Wars come to a truce.

_March 1813_

_Frontier, Michigan Territory, Near the Great Lakes_

The mist was lifting off the lake. America stared out at it, watching the waves lap up towards the shore where he sat. His arms wrapped around his legs, he thought about what he could do next. The troops that England had sent Canada were more than happy to deal blow for blow. And more than happy to let their allies run rampant over him. Sometimes he could still smell the blood from the Massacre at River Raisin. England was going to pay for that. He frowned, watching a fish leap out of the water and fall down again with a plop. What had happened to the England he knew? Even the one that had turned cold at the end of the Revolutionary War was still recognizable. He bit his lip, France couldn’t have been right about England. 

The sound of voices caused him to look over his shoulder. There were a few men coming down from the fort behind him. The soldier in his colors looked exasperated at the sober looking individual. America recognized him from that meeting of England’s. 

“Ru---, er, Mr. Braginski. I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, “It’s okay Captain, I can take it from here.” The human nodded and wandered off, still looking unsettled. Russia sat down on the edge of the lake, wrapping his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them, mirroring America’s posture.

“This place is not so different from my home. I have big lakes, too.” Russia looked over at him and smiled.

“I haven’t seen many other places.”

“You can visit me sometime.” America glanced at him. Russia wasn’t looking back, just smiling out at the lake. 

“Maybe I will,” said America, not wanting to alienate a potential ally. “Why are you here now though? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“We are all always in the middle of something. I came because I heard that you are having trouble with England, _da?_ ” Russia smiled, at him this time, an expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d seemed different, even when they were corresponding in secret years ago, but perhaps it was just lack of experience. “I am here to offer my help in negotiating with him if you need another nation to settle things.”

“Why you?”

“I want to be your friend,” said Russia. 

America looked at him, surprised. “Friends would be nice, but what’s the catch?”

“I don’t understand your meaning.”

“It’s never just about being friends. France wanted to punch England in the nose. Spain wanted more territory. You wanted more shipping lanes... What’s it this time?”

Russia’s smile had widened, he looked almost gleeful. “I knew you would be a good one to befriend. As you are right, I take issue with England.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“You seem to occupy a soft spot in his heart.” America rolled his eyes, Russia couldn’t be telling the truth. “With you as my friend he will think twice about bothering me.”

“Sorry, I don’t have a lot of interest in being a shield. I don’t even want this war. It really isn’t any of your business anyway.”

“He said the same thing.” Russia sighed. “Your friendship would, how do you say... mean a lot to me. Will you consider it?” 

America offered him a hand, Russia took it in a hard grip. America squeezed back. “Sure, I could use some more friends.”

***

_April 27, 1813_

_York, Canada_

Getting onto the beach had been the hard part. The air coming off the lake was cold as they sailed from New York. He knew Canada was ready for him. There had been similar battles before, crossing the border on either side. He would strike, Canada would come back with his reinforced troops. However, once again, his commanders couldn’t be counted on. America was banking on that. Despite, the fire from the shoreline when they first began to land, the defense was light. The British cavalry too late. 

The British main force withdrawing to Kingston. America wasn’t worried about that. 

He wanted York, Canada’s capital.

It was too easy to take the militia that was trying to defend the walls. Now, he looked up at the ramparts of the town. The batteries were captured and turned on the walls. Nothing was coming over them, yet. He stepped away, looking out at the woods, then back at the walls. “I know you’re here somewhere.”

“You would see me if you would turn around.” 

America turned to find Canada aiming a musket at him. “At least you got rid of England’s stupid red coat,” said America, frowning at him. “If I had seen you in that I may have had to pay you back for Ogdensburg.”

Canada frowned and tightened his fingers on the musket. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“C’mon Canada, it’s the same reason England constantly tried to take Philadelphia.”

“He _occupied_ Philadelphia.”

“I’m going to _occupy_ York until he talks to me.” He took a few steps forward, if he could just get close enough...

“I’ll shoot you.”

Silence fell between them and America could hear Zebulon Pike talking to one of the captured militiamen. “What is your whole strength and where are the regulars?” he asked.

“Canada, it’s over. His men left you again, you should come with me.” He reached out and grabbed the end of the musket, pushing the muzzle away and wrenching it out of Canada’s hands. Canada stepped back and shook his head.

“America, no.”

The man speaking to Pike raised his voice, the tone sullen. “Sir, I am a British soldier.” 

Boom.

It was like a battering ram had slammed into his back. He flew forward, losing his breath as he slammed into the ground. America’s ears rang as he tried to push himself up. Rocks and dirt fell from the sky. Nothing but a blackened mark where the ramparts had been. The Canadian soldier that Pike had been interrogating was blown away. Pike was dead. Everyone who had been anywhere near the walls was gone.

America rubbed at his forehead, trying to clear the blur in his eyes. Gunpowder. They must have detonated all the gunpowder before retreating. Coughing, America tried to wipe the soot from his eyes. “Canada? Canada!” 

A cough nearby. A groan. There, in a pile of soot was his brother, coughing and wincing as he pushed himself up as well. “This is all your fault. You’re such an idiot,” he said. He was covered in soot and dirt, his hair singed from the explosion. He glared at America through it all, tears tracking down his face. More smoke was rising from the horizon. “I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

Anger filled America’s stomach, it wasn’t like Canada hadn’t taken action against him. “As if you’re innocent. I saw you on my shores with them.”

“It’s war, America.”

“It’s war, eh, Canada,” he shot back, making Canada’s face twist with the mockery of him. Jumping forward, Canada struck at him. The first punch America dodged, but he was slow from the troubles caused by the war. The second strike caught him across the jaw, knocking him backwards. He fell, Canada tackling him to try and get his hands on his neck. America wasn’t the only one who had been weakened by the war and, right now, Canada’s capital was burning. He grabbed his wrists and shoved him off, holding him tight. 

They panted side by side, their hurts getting the better of them. Canada’s fists balled in his grip. “You’re going to be sorry for this, America.”

“Not when I win again.” 

Canada jerked away, pushing himself to his feet slowly. America sat up, not looking away when Canada shook his head and began limping away back to his town. America couldn’t tell if the feeling that flooded his chest was guilt, anger, or fear. 

Maybe it was all three.

***

_October 13, 1813_

_Cape of Good Hope, Africa_

It was familiar, nearly identical to a scene that played out not so long ago. Yet, so vastly different this time around. Instead of large blue eyes full of complete wonder and curiosity, it was large black eyes filled with acceptance that looked up at him. He had owned this colony only briefly, but never met the personification of its land and people. And now that he was taking it back from the Dutch, England was making sure that this time he met the small colony. “Good morning.” England said quietly. 

“Are you my new big brother?” the young girl asked quietly. A gust of wind buffeted its way across the beach they stood upon. Her small hands brushed away loose strands of coarse black hair as they obscured her sight. Many of her features were dominated by those of her indigenous people, the Khoisan, yet it seemed that due to Netherlands’ early influence and colonial outposts her skin tone was lighter than that of the Khoisan people.

“Yes, you may call me Arthur.” England smiled down at her, a feeling of elation filling his chest when she smiled back at him.

“And you may call me Ithemba Vanuit de Kaap” She grinned, walking across the sand with ease to him. For a moment, the young girl's expression spoke of one much older than her appearance. “Come on big brother, play with me.” She smiled and England took her small hand, following her inland. For a brief moment England felt awash in deja vu, as if he was following a wheat haired boy over a hilltop to look at a bison. 

Walking along a beach shouldn't be this painful. 

_***_

_May 30, 1814_

_Paris, France_

“Why does Francis always appear on the wrong side of the table. Not awesome like me.” Prussia’s laughter was lost amongst the debates and chatter of the delegates and translators in the room. The albino haired nation sat at England’s right hand, elbows propped on the table leering at France who gestured rudely in return

“And yet you have to remain so arrogant.” Austria sniffed in disdain from Prussia’s otherside. “You are often a cause of a headache.” The posh brunette crossed his arms, glaring through his spectacles at the Prussia, who merely laughed.

“I am certain that cocksure would be a better word, Roderich.” England smiled behind a glass of port, as Portugal to his left nodded his agreement with a laugh. England looked to Sweden and Russia who sat quietly down the left side of the table. England watched quietly. Banter erupted between the brunette and the albino, who very shortly dragged France into the argument of insults. Austria argued the entire way that he was above it. 

“Is this how all major treaty signings go?” Portugal asked, watching with amusement. England shook his head 

“Honestly,” he murmured “It really depends on the whole situation and who particularly involved. Trust me, if we had Antonio, Francis, and Gilbert in the same room it would take a week to get anything done,” he said flatly, waving one of the servants over to refill his cup. “And things will be moving along as soon as the last of the delegates arrive. I foresee the atmosphere becoming much more hostile once discussions actually begin. For now the delegations shall talk of their women, fashions, discoveries... trade with America will probably be a huge topic, as well. Anything to avoid the discussion of the suffering that Napoleon has dumped on Europe until the very last moment.”

“Ah, that... makes sense, I suppose.” Portugal shrugged, turning his eyes back to Prussia who was now standing in his chair bellowing about his self-proclaimed righteousness. Instead, England turned his attention to France. The French nation looked worse for wear, bags beneath his eyes and even his hair seemed to not have its usual shine. He looked worn down and tired. Blue eyes flicked to meet green and a half hearted smile came over the Frenchman's face. England frowned and shook his head causing France to heave a large sigh, propping his chin in his hand. 

“I don’t see where you thought any of this was a good idea.” England leaned across the oak table to whisper hotly at the adjacent blond. 

“Oh it wasn’t, _mon ami_.” France shrugged “But, I couldn’t really back down once I hard started, _oui_?”

“Yes, you could have.”

“Oh yes, because our governments always listen to us.” France said sarcastically, the man too tired to plaster on his usual charm. England merely shrugged in response, that was a statement that he could not argue with. “Times are changing, Arthur, and rapidly at that,” France continued in a melancholy tone. Giving him a look that did not sit well in his belly, France turned his eyes to Russia who quietly watched Prussia with a small smile. “I fear that the time for new giants is upon us.”

“Don’t,” England said curtly. Chairs began to scrape against the floor as the delegates took their seats. “We are here to sign the Treaty of Paris. And that is all that is to be discussed.” Swallowing hard England looked away with a huff.

“England?” Portugal’s questioning tone caused the Empire to look at the small nation. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” he answered abruptly. “My... my mind is just in many places today.” It wasn’t a complete lie. “Just this morning some of my troops have been dispatched, sent on ship to America.”

“To help your Canadian colony right?” 

“Yes. To help protect my subjects.” England nodded in affirmation. The multiple layers to that particular situation were none of the boy's concern or business.  The most obvious reasoning would do. Grabbing his own copy of the treaty he began to read it over once more.

_His Majesty, the King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and his Allies on the one part, and His Majesty the King of France and Navarre on the other part, animated by an equal desire to terminate the long agitations of Europe, and the sufferings of Mankind, by a permanent Peace..._

It was the complete silence in the room that pulled England away the document. The delegates and nations alike all seemed to be waiting. A sense of unease and anger had now seeped into the floorboards and swollen to the ceiling. The Napoleonic wars had ravaged all of Europe and everyone's anger was expected and accepted. The air in the room thickened with tension. It was time to get this over with.

“Now,” England stood up, all eyes in the room falling to him “We are here to finalize and sign the Treaty of Paris.” England announced, green eyes locking onto his longtime friend and enemy “To make sure that the country of France never attempts such a foolhardy thing again.”

_***_

_July 1, 1814_

“And you are going to be present as well?” asked England, looking up from the comfort of his outdoor lounging mat, supported by pillows and shadowed from the harsh July sun by a towering  English oak. Across from him Poland lay, sprawled out, picking at a tray of fruit. 

“Of course I am. Francis’s stupidity has threatened us all. And you know I am totally unsettled. I highly doubt that this will be the last of it.” Poland responded, putting to word the fears of most of Europe. 

“That I understand.” England sighed, peering up at the surprisingly cloudless sky. It was early, give it time and afternoon rains would pour down on them. “Napoleon’s banishment has ended twenty-five years of war in Europe. And with the signing of the Treaty of Paris stupid Francis is to lose all of the territory he recently gained. Austria, Russia, and even Prussia are gaining land from the treaty.” England yawned. Even in the shade, the summer heat ate away at his energy. “But let's not worry of that now. I am so tired of everything.”

“Sleep?” Poland laughed. “Totally cool.”

“Sleep.” England chuckled in agreement.

_***_

_July 3, 1814_

_Fort Erie_

General Winfield Scott had just fallen in the Niagara and not a single man in the boats laughed. America didn’t even feel like laughing, even as the serious young man was dragged back with all of his military aplomb dripping wet. Not that any of them were very dry, the rain hadn’t let up all day. They continued on, trying to find firm ground. Finally, they were pouring out of the boat, the water surging into his boots didn’t even make a difference. 

Once again, there wasn’t much of a fight. By noon, the men defending the fort had surrendered. Walking into the fort, America felt like wringing out his uniform, but then he spied a face that was familiar as his own. Stepping into the group, he took Canada by the arm and marched him off, finding a storage room on the edge of the fort. Barring the door behind him, America whirled on Canada. “Where are the British?”

“Not here, obviously,” he said, sitting down on a crate.

“Is this England’s strategy? Leave you to get captured?”

“Why would I tell you? You’re marching up the Niagara anyway. It’s obvious, we were here not two years ago!”

“How can you stand by him when he keeps using you as a pawn? You should be on my side!” Canada was silent. America wanted to hit him, shake him, make him say something. He dragged over a crate, sitting down on top of it. They sat in silence. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

“Doesn’t it, America? What are you going to do? Use me as a stand in for England in more way than one?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t have him so you’re going to take me?” 

America couldn’t understand, what one earth was he talking about? “Did you get hit in the head?”

“Your skull is thicker than a tree trunk! You need to find someone else to be in love with.” America had a snappy comeback for the first, but the second caught him off guard.

“What did you say?”

“I know that you’re still in love with England. Is filling the lakes and rivers with our blood your way of showing him you care? You’re messed up.”

“This is _not_ about that.”

“He sent an army after you to try and get you to come back to him. Now you’re trying to get his attention by burning us both down. He’s going to burn you down. You saw him with the others.”

“Canada, shut up.”

“Find a different lover. Get a new dream.”

“Shut up.”

“He’s defeated France, who knows what he’s doing to celebrate. He probably doesn’t even realize what day it is.” America stood up, grabbing Canada by his uniform coat and yanking him to his feet. Canada looked back defiantly and America blinked away the angry tears that threatened to fall.

“Why?”

“Because you need to get it through your head. No amount of victories is going to change things between you.”

“You’re wrong.” His fingers loosened. “You’re just angry that your precious France is bleeding on a battlefield somewhere. Hell, maybe England is in his bed right now.” The idea of it felt like an open wound and he could tell that Canada felt the same. He let him go, Canada reaching up to try and smooth the wrinkled fabric. “He’s coming now isn’t he?”

“He wrote to me to say he was coming as soon as he finished the peace negotiations. They’ve been arguing it over since May. It could be complete by now,” replied Canada his face serious. “I meant what I said before. He’s going to make you sorry for all of this.”

“Just... I don’t want you interfering. If he’s going to get revenge on me, I want it to just be him.”

“I don’t even get to take my own revenge?”

“Haven’t you already?” 

Canada looked away, his jaw clenched. “No. You should go. Otherwise, I’m going to have to take you prisoner.”

“Take me prisoner?” 

Canada was silent, watching him. America could hear it now, the British marching orders. Flutes and drums through the pouring rain. 

They were being ambushed. 

_Damn it._

He turned to fight. 

Then to run. 

England was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying our story please leave us a kudo or a comment! This chapter was a little short, but the next one is a big one! ;)
> 
> Next chapter: England closes in on Washington D.C. and they face each other for the first time since the end of the Revolution.


	5. Burn it Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England has arrived on North American shores with a plan to make an example of a certain young nation who thought he could start a fight with the British Empire. The torch is lit for Washington D.C.

_August 24, 1814_

_Washington, District of Columbia_

America looked over his shoulder back down the road. The pops of musket fire were growing louder down near the river, were the British coming at Bladensburg!? If so, the defenses weren’t in the right position! He wheeled his horse around, President Madison pausing as well. “America, we need to continue on to Washington.”

“I should be by the river, I might be able to stop him.” America could taste the sweat dripping off his skin as he wheeled his horse around. He couldn’t tell if it was from the heat, the exertion of riding so many miles so quickly with the president, or the nerves that had coiled in his limbs ever since he’d heard England was coming. It felt like that first invasion all over again, except now it was driving right at the heart of the capitol he’d chosen for himself. 

Without giving Madison a chance he pressed his heels into his horse’s sides and went the opposite direction of most of his army. The British would have one more line of defense to pass before they could get to Washington. England may be attacking from a different approach than America had expected, but he couldn’t possibly get all the way through! It wasn’t long until America hopped off his horse and offered it to someone else. The cannons boomed, making his ears ring, but he ducked into the line. 

He could see them now in their red coats coming over the bridge and from where they’d forded the river. The reminder was unsettling. America grit his teeth and was determined to stand fast.

***

“Major General Ross keep your troops moving!” England turned his attention to the man beside him. Despite the bright red uniforms, his army appeared bedraggled, exhausted. Fifteen miles of trudging from the landing point, many men falling to the road with sunstroke. Turning in the saddle of his chestnut mare, Arthur cast a concerned glance over his troops. The army was much smaller than he was comfortable with, starting at a mere six thousand, and now he had less than that.

“We are nearly there men! Just over the bridge and we shall fall upon what the nation of America calls troops!” A few, half hearted laughs were the only verbal response Ross received and England pushed sweat soaked bangs from his forehead. He couldn’t decide which was worse, wars of winter or that of summer. Both were miserable.

“Smarten yourself, Ross,” England ordered, dragging his reins over the horse's neck to turn her around, walking backwards at a pace equal to that of the foot soldiers. “All right men, heads up! Remember we are hear to teach upstarts a lesson! These boys thought that they could take Canada from us! They believe they have no reason to fear the United Kingdom! And yet now they hide with their bellies in the dirt! Just beyond that bridge. Just because we have weary limbs and tired feet do we give them leave!?” A man from the group hollered a distinct ‘NO’ which in turn was echoed by many of his counterparts. A grin crawled back onto the English nation’s face. England watched as light overcame exhaustion in the soldier's eyes. “And why are we here?!”

“To teach them a lesson!” echoed shouts shuddered through the air above the army.

“And who do we fight for!?” Standing up in his stirrups England yanked his infantry blade from its scabbard, holding it high above his head as various responses boomed through the crowd.

“God save-”

“God Save The Queen!” they repeated, men thrusting gun and blade into the air, as a chant swelled around them.

“Long live-” England screamed.

“Long Live The King!” clamoured through the air. Any verbal synchronization erupted into shouts of rage and adrenaline fueled bravery as tiny explosions of dirt erupted about feet, the first man falling. By God did he miss bow and arrow.

“For England!” England screeched, once more the irony not lost on him, as in tandem with his General, thrust their swords high, the troops surging forward. However, his own adrenaline seemed to have a leak. The American troops were scattering, many of them were fleeing. “Capture officers!” England shouted, looking around in confusion, transforming quickly into amusement. It seemed as if his worries on the river had been unnecessary. Urging his mare forward,  he grabbed onto Ross’s arm with an unforgiving grip. “No perusal! We fight them and capture! I will not have the men’s energy wasted chasing after cowards!”

“Yes, my Lord!” the officer said, acknowledging his order before rejoining the fray. 

“We shall have rest by late afternoon at this rate.” England announced to himself, not that anyone else would hear such an utterance in a skirmish.

***

“Don’t get captured, men!” 

America could barely hear Commodore Barney’s order over the noise. The man fell a moment later, a bleeding wound in his leg from a musket ball that had found a target. America scrambled, trying to get the cannon spiked so England wouldn’t have any use for it. The fight had been short, but hot, and he hoped that it was enough time for the D.C. to prepare. His fingers fumbled at the metal rod as he drove it into the firing mechanism, if England had come on so fierce already, and if D.C. wasn’t ready to hold... he couldn’t think, the British were already on top of them, a sea of red coats mixing in with blue of the American marines and sailors that had been manning the cannons.

He barely dodged the musket butt that came at his face, and as he sidestepped he felt his feet go out from under him. The ammunition around the base of the cannon rolled and America cursed as he slammed face first into the dirt. His ankle throbbed as he tried to stand, but it was too late. A musket pointed at his face, and another one just at the edge of his vision. _Damn it..._ he thought, raising his hands slowly. 

He could hear the noise as others were captured, the dirt ground into his knees as he listened. He knew that gait, even if it had been so many years. He didn’t even have to look up to know it was him when his legs came into view. “Arthur,” he said, eyes flicking up to England’s face. 

It was the same face he’d known his entire life, although the uniform had changed since the last time they were in this situation. The red coat remained, although the cut had been changed, the trousers had become long and changed from the bright white to blue. The scowl was familiar and America couldn’t help smiling at him, knowing how the scowl would deepen.

***

The small tinge of satisfaction that ran through England at the sight of America kneeling before him did not last long as sense of awkwardness replaced it. This wasn’t the same as seeing France or Spain kneeling in front of him. Did Alfred look older? Had he grown taller once more? Arthur’s mind briefly flicked to Good Hope, that tiny little colony. Looking back at Alfred, Arthur was filled with an uncomfortable realization. There was little to nothing left of his colony. “Alfred.” For a brief moment he thought to offer the boy a hand, but his pride as an empire would not allow it. “On your feet then.” He nodded.

America pushed himself up, favoring his right ankle. Had he wounded it? It took more effort than it normally would have for him to stand. He pulled himself up as straight as he could. England couldn’t help but feel proud of him for maintaining his dignity, despite the dirt on his uniform and a scrape on his face. “Finally decided to show up to your own war, huh?” America said.

“I had more important things to attend to, rather than deal with a tantrum over here. Europe is busy.” He turned to the soldier on his left. “Tell General Ross that I am to have water and the components of a splint ready for me beneath one of the trees where we have set up medical camp. Immediately. I have an important prisoner of war.” The man darted off after a salute. Turning his attention back to America he heaved a sigh before scowling. “Now I have to help you hobble back. Can’t even make a decent prisoner can you?”

***

“Making this easy for you isn’t exactly my highest priority.” He was half-tempted to ask for a musket to use as a walking stick, but he highly doubted England was going to put a weapon anywhere near him. It was smart, but annoying. Instead, America was left awkwardly leaning on England, taking delicate steps on that side. 

***

It was strange, being this close together after what had happened. England couldn’t decide how to behave, it was a new situation. Should he be harsh and cold to him? Should he try and talk with him? England really had little care for this fight. If the boy hadn’t made an attack on Canada he would have ignored the declaration of war. He was too busy with Europe crumbling to be over here. Reaching out he shouldered more of the boy's weight. “On with it! I don't have all day!”

“Really, you have somewhere else to be? Kicking France while he’s down or something? Ouch!” They’d reached the tree England had specified and England had let him drop. America fell onto the ground, glaring at him. 

“Well if the Frog hadn’t decided to get too big for his britches than maybe he wouldn’t have to be taught a lesson. May that be a lesson to all those foolhardy enough to get a swelled head.” His nose scrunched in distaste as his mind ran through everything that France had managed to fuck up with these wars. Kneeling down he grabbed the medical supplies. “Unlace your boot. I won’t have any accusations of the mistreatment of officers and other dignitaries sullying my reports.”

***

“It’s not that bad.” America protested, but England didn’t even wait for him before grabbing his leg and wiggling the boot over his foot. Damn, it was already turning purple. He cursed the flush that crept up his neck as England cradled his foot in his lap and put the splint to it. America decided he would blame it on the heat. “And swelled head, huh? Are you sure you aren’t describing yourself?” 

***

Glaring at the boy, he flicked America’s ankle, not bothering to hide his smug grin when the boy swore loudly. “You might want to think before you speak when someone is holding your injured foot,” England chided before turning his attention to America’s ankle, fingers running over it gently. It wasn’t broken, but it was terribly strained. Alfred really should stay off of it. A well of concern rose into his throat, injuries like these could only be brought on by extreme hurts, or weaknesses brought on by stresses within the nation, politics, land, or both at once. He tightened his jaw, biting back the verbalization of his worry. Pulling at the bandages and making sure everything was tight he knotted it off just as a soldier jogged up to them. 

“My Lord, General Ross sent me over with two canteens,” the man said loudly, saluting. 

“Put mine down next to me. Hand the other to-” He looked up at America “To Captain Jones. Then be on your way. Tell General Ross I want those missives ready when I get there, I need to examine the prisoner to make sure he doesn't die on us,” he said flatly as the soldier handed off the canteen. The soldier saluted once more before scurrying off. “Honestly, I don’t need any more paperwork.”

***

America watched England as he settled down onto the grass beside him, fingers probing around his ankle to see if the injury extended. America could feel his hands shaking and he stuffed them under his arms, not wanting England to see. The fight with Canada had taken its toll. England’s complete blockade of the eastern seaboard would sometimes hit him with dizzy spells. The riots over the war probably contributed to how easily his ankle had been wounded. It was all adding up. 

Now England was here with a fully armed military force and naval ships still patrolling the shores. Why hadn’t he just sent his diplomats to Ghent like he’d said he was going to do in January!? America bit his lip, he’d known it when Canada had said it. England was here to make an example of him. What exactly was he going to do? “You could have worked on some paperwork in Belgium before coming here. My diplomats have been waiting for yours for months.” 

***

“Sod off.” England pointed a finger at him. “Drink your fucking water before I have catch you fainting like a woman.” He glared at the younger boy, taking in the sight of him. He was a mess and, based on the way he had fallen, America had probably hit his head. Rising onto one knee he reached over, sliding his hands through America’s hair. The last thing he needed was to have the young nation pass out with a concussion. 

***

America had just reached for the canteen when he felt England touching his head. He knew he was feverish from the blockade completely shredding what was left of his economy and that was the last thing he wanted England to know. He pushed his hands away, “It’s just the ankle.” He could feel the flush full on his face now. Heat, fever, or the fact that England had been touching him, America couldn’t be sure of the culprit.

***

“You always were a shite liar,” England swore before placing two fingers between his lips and letting out a sharp whistle. “Oy, my personal rations bag. Now!” he shouted at the first soldier that neared him. England remained silent as he watched the soldier head for his horse, he really hadn’t planned on spending time with the little upstart, but it looked like fate had other options.  “Ah, Mr. Kendall.” England recognized the foot soldier who came back carrying his bag. “Good on you.” England smiled and before the nation could continue the middle aged man laughed.

“You want me to light your pipe for you again, my Lord?”

“If you would.” England nodded his thanks, handing the soldier his pipe kit before digging through his bag. “It is a good thing Matthew has a good heart, Captain. He made me carry out extra supplies to hand off to you despite your assault on his person. Should keep your energy up, despite being so bedraggled. At least until we can drop you with the other prisoners.” England lied easily. Well, it wasn’t a complete lie. Canada _had_ provided the rations, but England had specifically requested extra. He tossed the bag at America “Here, don’t go dumping it in a harbor or anywhere like some wasteful idiot.”

***

America’s mouth thinned thinking of Canada. The last time America had seen him, he’d been bedridden. Between the fires that had broken out, both by accident and on purpose, and the fight he’d given at every turn. America sat the bag next to him. “Matthew is probably trying to poison me. I can still hear his brand of cursing all the way down here.”

Still, he was hungry. He reached into the bag and pulled out one of the bread rolls. It didn’t look suspicious, didn’t taste suspicious either. He shifted when England decided to begin another attempt at checking him over for other injuries. 

“I told you, it’s just the ankle.” No need for England to feel how thin he’d gotten. “You still haven’t told me why you’ve chosen now to show up in all your regalia fresh from punching Francis in the nose. If I’m so _unimportant_ why don’t you just make peace with me?” 

England stared at him, taking the pipe from the soldier as it was finally lit. “Thank you Mr. Kendall. That will be all. It seems that this man might be slightly delirious, so I will be with him for a moment longer. Make General Ross aware.” He nodded to the man who saluted and sauntered off. England took to his pipe for a couple moments of silence before shaking his head in disbelief. “Honestly, I am not going to tell you anything lest they think you're a loon, git. Secondly, you're the enemy so stop asking.” England shook his head again. “Thirdly, Matthew never excelled in poisons. Healing spells were more his thing. And making blasted snow,” he said flatly.

America rolled his eyes, England was the one growing delirious if he was going on about magic. “And your speciality is being a pain in my ass. This is all your fault.” He coughed, reaching for the canteen. He swore, his hands were shaking too bad to get the cork out of the bottle. Sitting it back down, lest England notice, he resumed his previous position with crossed arms. “Why are you being obtuse? It’s within my rights to demand why you, personally, show up after making a big show about how little you think of me. Nation to nation.”

England snorted. “Your right?” He leaned into America’s personal space with a laugh. “You’re a prisoner of war, lad. You don’t have any real rights. I told you to keep your hands off of Matthew. He told you no. You didn’t listen.” He exhaled slowly, smoke unfurling into the cool air of the shade the tree above them. He grinned “Didn’t I tell you as a wee child that you don’t touch fire, or you’re going to get burned? I know I did more than once. Apparently you still haven’t learned.”

America’s eyes narrowed. “I remember a lesson about fighting fire with fire. Canada learned that lesson first hand thanks to you. And besides I gave up on him months ago. I’ve been too busy breaking up your ships on the Great Lakes. Commodore Perry would give you his regards if he wasn’t still at work.”

***

England stared at him blankly for a moment before he began to laugh. “Oh boy, boy, boy, am I going to cherish the look on your face later.” He moved to his feet with a slight groan, grasping his pipe tightly. “That will be a glorious sight. Those words are near identical to what Spain said to me once.” He sniffed. “And yet... the bones of his failure will forever wash up on my shores.” 

He shook his head in amusement. The comment had annoyed him, in truth, but there was no reason to let America know that. “I really do have better things to do,” he said. He motioned for two men to come over before turning his back to America. The look of amusement practically melted from his face, replaced with a deep scowl. “I guess I shall send for you later.” With quick strides he put as much distance between him and America as he could, heading for where he knew General Ross would be pouring over battle plans.

“I’ll be gone before you get back,” said America. England gave him a hard look, America glared back.

“You keep telling yourself that,” he said cooly waving for two soldiers to come over. “I need you to keep an eye on the prisoner. I have things of importance to handle.” England ordered. The two soldiers snapped to attention, saluting the nation.

England looked down at Alfred once more. Shaking his head, England turned back around, heading to General Ross who was focused intently on a missive. Focusing on keeping his pace steady and even, he inhaled and exhaled through his nose in measured time. 

That had been more difficult than he had expected it, to keep his temper after he captured the new nation. To have a civil conversation with him had been exhausting. Rubbing at his temple, he willed his headache to stop, it would make thinking difficult. Coupled with the stifling heat the afternoon had taken an uncomfortable turn. 

Although, he was certain that by the end of the day it was Alfred who would be suffering.

***

The afternoon wore on and was coming on dusk. England was nowhere in sight. He’d stomped off to shout at his men no doubt and decide what plan of attack they were going to take on the city.

America mulled over the two soldiers that had their backs to him, considering his escape. He knew they didn’t know who he was and were, in fact, probably wondering why their commander had left them to guard a young man who didn’t seem to be important. They were talking in lowered voices.

“What was that?” asked America, some of their words catching his attention.

The men turned, and looked at him, one immediately turning away and deciding he wasn’t worth the effort. The other, however, a young man who probably thought they were the same age leered at him. “Just saying we wish we could be there when the capital city goes up in smoke. What’s the stupid name you’ve used for it? Maybe after, we’ll make quick work of Baltimore or maybe finally get back Boston for all the trouble they caused in the past. Teach you lot what it means when his Majesty says ‘once an Englishman, always an Englishman.’”

America glared at him. The soldier laughed and turned around, nudging his compatriot in the shoulder. _Once an Englishman, always an Englishman._ Indeed. Was that really what England was thinking? That he still belonged to him in some way? Not an equal in his eyes still, apparently. Shifting, America tested the weight on his bad ankle. It hurt, but he could likely get some distance. They were still miles from the city. England wouldn’t be reaching it until nightfall at the earliest.

Slowly, he began to inch backwards. A horse would improve the situation immensely. There, a few were picketed not too far away. If he could just get to them, then he could take the back roads into Washington and get there before the troops neared the city. A little at a time, a little at a time. 

Climbing carefully to his feet, he made his move. Sheer luck got him to the picket line enough to untie the horse and begin leading it away. The soldiers nearby had fallen asleep or were looking in the wrong direction. Getting the horse into the nearby woods, he climbed on and made his way around the army and off towards the capital. 

***

“He escaped?” England rode down Maryland Avenue, General Ross trailing just ever so slightly behind him with a nervous air as they led the infantry towards Capitol square. 

“Yes, my Lord. Somehow he got past the men this afternoon. But do not fret! I have sent other men after him!” General Ross assured him that he was doing everything in his power to remedy the mistake and after a few moments England simply tuned him out. He had expected this turn of events, the men would obviously get cocky and their guard would slip. He wasn’t surprised or angry. It was just how it was. Now whether it was his exhaustion coupled with the heat or his lack of expectations regarding the retention of America, England found himself rather accepting of the situation. 

“And have you found him yet?”

“Well no-”

“Then why are you wasting time here speaking with me when you could be aiding in the search or directing the men as your position dictates?” England glanced at the man, whose nerves seemed to only escalate. “Ah, Admiral Cockburn there you are.” England left his chastising of his General back on the road as his Admiral came towards them at a canter.

“My Lord Kirkland, everything is ready.” The middle aged military man pulled his horse up short beside them. “I, however, do-” Shots cut conversation short as shots rang out across the road. 

“To hell with this damned country!” England swore as Ross fell from his horse, the beast having been shot dead. England watched as Ross hit the ground for the second time that day. “Do stop costing me horses, Ross!” England shouted, drawing his own mare around as his troops fell into formation.

***

America rode straight to the President’s House, wondering all the while where the army was. He could see some militia stationed in windows of the town, ready to fight the British should they approach. They had expected to stop them further down the Potomac, not at Bladensburg. America couldn’t believe the chaos that had happened, it was one of the most humiliating battles in his existence. His ankle throbbed as he climbed off the horse. Dusk was coming on and servants were rushing in and out of doors loading what they could into a cart. 

“Dolly!”

“Oh, Alfred!” the first lady said, “Oh, if only we had a cannon in every window! I’m gathering what I can before those brutes get into the city.” 

“They’re on my heels, you should go.” She nodded.

“Wait! I have one more thing, could you help me?” She called orders to the servants and they all climbed up into the wagon. America got off his horse and limped up the stairs after her, waving off her concern. “We can’t leave him.” She gestured to the painting of George Washington hanging on the wall. America helped her get it off and crack the frame so she could roll it up. She gathered a few more things on the way out and soon she was headed to safety outside of the town. 

“Go, I’ll follow,” said America, not intending any such thing. He was going to defend the Capitol building. It was, after all, the only building worth notice in the swampy city. Most of the citizenry was elsewhere, either away in cooler climes or already fled the oncoming invasion. He could already smell the smoke as it began to rise from the first buildings put to the torch. “Damn you, England,” America muttered under his breath as he limped up the stairs. Luckily, there were a few spare muskets with the other men who were going to try and deter the British. America got the weapon primed and waited.

***

A chaotic peacefulness, an oxymoron indeed. But that was the only way that England could describe his current situation. Between the shouting of his men, as they cheered on the burning and pillage, their voices clashed with the cries of their opponents as they were chased off or captured.  England looked around with mixed feelings. As the British Empire, he had destroyed and wrecked many a capital city, rubbing his enemies faces in the mud or watching as they fell to their knees in despair and defeat. That same sense of victory rushed through his veins at this very moment as boot hit earth, yet it was coupled with the slightest bit of hesitation. All wars were personal, in particular between personified nations, And with it being America... that did not make the situation any less muddled. 

"Lord Kirkland?" General Ross's questioning tone brought England from his thoughts. 

"Yes?"

"We are nearing the Capitol building. Did you still wish to be the one carrying the torch?" the middle-aged officer pointed ahead of them, less than a quarter of a mile away.  

"Yes. Of course." England nodded. "One more time, what does the Capitol building house exactly?"

"Well," the General cleared his throat, "The Library of Congress, the House of Representatives, Congress and their Supreme Court."

"And what else is going up in flames tonight?"

"The President’s Mansion, the navy yard and, at your request, we have picked several of their warships."

"What was that about you crushing my navy, Alfred?" England muttered to himself as he looked at the building. The American Capitol Building was not even completely constructed. It only consisted of a south and north wing which were then connected by a wooden walkway that looked to be the skeleton of a future stone hall. 

"We shall enter," England announced as a torch was handed to him. Turning he waved for silence from the group entering the capital with him. "Do not mind the lobbies, staircases or halls otherwise we will all burn along with the damned place.  Use furniture to feed the fire. Smother everything you can with gunpowder paste.  Documents of whatever importance make bloody good kindling." He grinned, the men laughing and cheering. With another jerk of his arm, the group began marching forward on the building once more. England peered up at the night sky, taking in the stars, they would not be visible much longer. Between the storm brewing on the horizon and the smoke from a burning city.

***

The gun had fallen from America’s fingers, laying on the floor beside where he’d slumped. He’d been able to watch at first, gritting his teeth and waiting for England to get closer. As the first buildings went up in smoke, he could bear it, hoping that he could still get the better of him. He could feel the electricity in the air, the sharp smell that preceded rain. It contrasted with the smoke, no drops as yet. It was as if nature was holding its breath.

He could hear the gunfire and the last pockets of resistance, but it was a lost cause. There was no way to defend the city from the force. The militias had fled home. The army was elsewhere. No one thought he would be callous enough...

England was making an example of him and it cut him to the bone.

He could smell the smoke as it began to curl through the building. He needed to get up, move, flee. It was as if all of his strength had disappeared. He placed one hand on the floor and tried to push himself up, but found himself lying face down. How had he gotten there? 

Blackness slid into the edge of his vision. _No. Get up._

The darkness swallowed him whole.

***

“Unbelievable!” England shouted. His soldiers ran alongside him as they escaped the South wing. They had planned to set up several more bonfires of furniture but the fire had then to its offering faster and with a ferocity that took everyone present by surprise. The flames crawled up the stacks of furniture, catching on curtains, rising so high and so hot that even the lead in the skylights began to melt. 

Coughing as he inhaled smoke, England made for the north wing where the men were already beginning to set things aflame. The Capitol Building would be in ruins before sunrise. Moving through the building England helped collect documents to assure that the fire would catch at every station. 

Taking in his surroundings he noticed a door was cracked ajar, and he nearly kept going, yet something tugged at him to check the room.  Signaling to his men to continue their destructive actions, he peered into the room. 

“Alfred.” His stomach plummeted and despite the heat England went cold. Alfred was sprawled across the carpet in front of a window, a gun laying haphazardly at the tips of his fingers. “Alfred!” darting into the room, England’s knees cracked against carpet covered marble beside the young nation. He grabbed the blond’s shoulders, shaking him. Grabbing the boy's wrist he shoved the coat cuffs up, fingers grasping tightly. A slow, but steady heartbeat made itself known. 

Sagging in relief, England rolled the boy over. There were no gunshot wounds, no signs of a stabbing. It seemed as if Alfred had passed out, and if England was correct in relating it back to his own experiences, it was the burning of the city that had knocked the boy unconscious. “You can’t stay here.” England muttered and grabbed the boy beneath his arms with a grunt. Alfred had certainly gotten larger, and put on a couple pounds. “Any bigger and I'd have to drag you down the hall!” he grunted, moving into a squat. 

With some maneuvering, and several curse words, England managed to shift Alfred’s dead weight over his shoulders and get to his feet, and with no time to spare. The familiar sound of fire crunching away at wood accompanied the tendrils of smoke that began to snake their way into the room.  Moving quickly, England exited the study. Soldiers were beginning to move towards the exit, their job done. Several of the men motioned to take Alfred off his shoulder and carry him between themselves, but England just shook his head stubbornly. He trusted these men with his life, but he did not trust them with Alfred. Coughing violently in the smoke, England focused on moving forward. The burning of the city had yet to even finish, yet he had no plans to stay for the rest. With hazy vision, England maneuvered his way until the wall of smoke ended and England found himself outside once more. Doubling over in a coughing fit, the empire clutched the young nation tightly as clean air became sharp in his lungs. Ross suddenly appeared in his vision and England grabbed his shoulder tightly. “I am going to the harbor,” he wheezed. 

***

The groan of wood under strain was loud in his ears, beneath that the sound of shouting, rain pounding on the roof overhead. A crash and wood cracking. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the beams of the Capitol Building falling all around him from the flames, but instead there was just a lantern on a hook, casting light back and forth in a swaying motion. He looked at it, feeling the plank he was laying on buck underneath him. Another crash. Thunder rolling. Wind sneaking through any chink in the wood between the slat on the side of the ship. 

A ship. Had he always been a ship? No, he had been on the shore, watching the flames devour D.C. 

“Bloody hell, fucking weather.” America froze at the sound of his voice, shifting slightly to look at its source. England was looking through a window, unfazed when the ship rolled beneath him. America sat up, feeling dizzy as soon as he moved. England was looking at him. “You shouldn’t move around so much.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” America replied, getting to unsteady legs. He was still getting used to the ocean and the fact that he felt he may fall down again didn’t help matters. He needed to see. Rain lashed against the glass, but he could tell they were on the Potomac. England must not have gotten his ship out to sea before the storm broke. The crashes were ships running into each other in the close quarters. Back in town many of the fires had gone out. The gales were pounding into the ground and he could see the swirling wind cutting down the main road in town. His eyes widened. A tornado? 

A wave of nausea hit him and he grabbed hold of the wooden sill of the ship’s window frame, refusing to be sick in front of England. A hand was on his arm, offering support.

“Don’t!” He pushed, shoving England away and losing his balance in the process. He fell, catching his back on the frame of the bunk and causing his wounded ankle to throb even more. He slid to the deck. “How can you... what have you done?” It was too much and the tears were falling from his eyes before he could think to squeeze them shut against them. Wrapping his arms around himself he wept, not able to control it.

***

It hurt more than it should have. In fact, it shouldn’t hurt at all, watching America collapse in defeat. England should have been saturated with satisfaction, he had completely crushed his adversary. He had been waiting all day for that familiar sense of victory to rush through his veins, coupled with adrenaline. He was supposed to be elated. And yet, he felt nothing of the sort. Instead a sense of regret tainted with shame weighed at him like an anchor. England was rather surprised he hadn’t been pulled through the deck and to the river's bottom. Clearing his throat, England looked away for a moment before turning back to America. He was here for a reason, despite how unpleasant it now seemed.  

“I-” his voice cracked. Clearing his throat he continued. “I, the United Kingdom have responded to the plea of my Canadian colony and have wrought revenge against his attacker the United States of America as a warning. Attack my colony again and this will simply be the first of many assaults against your country.” He paused inhaling a breath to steady himself. This shouldn’t be this hard. “I give you this simple warning and suggest you heed its implications.”

***

America shook his head. England couldn’t be serious. It felt personal and here he was, standing there, as though it were an unfortunate business transaction that he didn’t want to stomach. America looked up at him as a wave rocked the ship. England shifted on his feet, but kept his shoulders squared and that imperious look on his face. There was a hint of something there, an emotion that America hadn’t seen in years. 

England felt sorry for him, and it made him angry. “Bullshit,” he said through gritted teeth. “I failed to conquer him, you knew that before you even got here. The first thing you did when you got to my shores was attack my capital? I didn’t even want this damn war! If you’d listened, if you’d sent your emissaries sooner... Washington wouldn’t be in ashes!”

“You don't enter into wars lightly. If you didn't want to deal with possible consequences you should have stayed off of Canadian soil and never sent that declaration of war. Do not try to shift the blame to me. You touched what you shouldn't have and I retaliated,” England said quietly. “You didn't think this one through. Not that you ever have.”

“You’re the one who threw the first volley when the _HMS Leopard_ fired on the _Chesapeake!_ How many times did I have to say it!? I’m not yours to command anymore, my people belong to me. I don’t give a damn if they were once Englishmen. They’re Americans now. Canada was collateral damage,” America fired back. He reached up, trying to get a hold of something he could use to pull himself to his feet. He was not going to be shouting at England from the ground. He’d never felt so horrible in his entire existence. The entire room felt like it was moving, and it wasn’t just from the turbulence of the river.

“And you retaliated with war. I did not see you leading diplomats to speak with King George at Windsor castle. You simply shouted at me rather than handling it government to government. You treated it as if Arthur and Alfred were bickering, not as if nations England and America were at arms. You did not separate it. That is when things go wrong.” England’s eyes tracked his progress to his feet. “You did not have to go straight to war, that was your decision. If you remember correctly we never even declared war back. You simply assaulted Canada.” His lip curled in disgust. “I'll be certain to let Matthew know you simply saw him as collateral damage.”

“Shows how little you actually know him. He knew what I was going to do, why do you think he went to you in the first place? You should have talked to me! I know he asked you to! My government officials have been in Ghent since February! Where are yours?!” Being upright was a mistake, his head felt like it might roll completely off his shoulders. “You still treat me like I’m a colony. Wait, America. Be patient, America. I’m too busy messing about with other nations, America.” 

“You want me to discuss my government's decisions and the happenings between my colonies and I with you? A foreign nation.” He shook his head in disbelief. “And why should I drop what I am doing to aid you? There are other things going on in the world beside you.”

“You’re trying to have it both ways. I’m only “foreign” when it’s convenient. Americans are British enough when it suits _you._ I’m not coming back, I’ll never be subordinate to you again.” The last words came out, stuttering. Heat flashed across his skin and next thing he knew he had fallen down hard onto the berth, still upright, but no longer on his feet.

England stepped away from the window reaching for him, knocking America’s hands aside when he tried to protest. Grabbing his arm he pulled him away from the wall and moved him towards a chair.  “I am done talking circles with you. Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

Given how weak he felt, America slumped into the chair. England hadn’t answered him. Didn’t protest the accusations. Was that why he was here? There had been whispers amongst his people. What would happen when the British came back? His stomach clenched with nerves... a second war of independence... He gritted his teeth and asked, “Be honest with me. Why did you come? Not your army, I expected that, but _you._ ” 

“I told you. Canada requested it of me. He originally told me his concerns and I did not believe him. When he asked for my help once again, this time personally, how could I refuse?” He stood in front of America for a couple moments of silence. 

“He requested you come in here and burn down my city? He and I have settled that with each other. An eye for an eye has happened, no help from you was needed.” He thought about all of the border towns burned on both sides. Accidents or on purpose, it didn’t even matter now. He rubbed at his cheek. He felt light headed. The storm was quieting and he could hear orders being called regarding sails and getting underway. “If you’re going back home now why don’t you just let me off on shore.”

England looked at him as if he was stupid. “First of all, I told you I am not talking circles with you anymore. Secondly, you want me to try and dock or put a small boat out on water in this gail? I know you have not been seafaring for long, but I know for a fact that I told you and Matthew horror stories about stupid decisions made on the water during my past.”

America looked away, silence falling between them. A knock came at the cabin door. England told them to enter and a sailor walked in, pressing his knuckles to his forehead in a salute. “Lord Kirkland, the captain wanted me to inform you that we will be underway to Baltimore via the Chesapeake when the storm settles.”

“Thank you, sailor, we will deal with those pirates presently,” replied England. The man saluted and closed the door behind him, once again leaving them alone. 

“There aren’t any pirates in Baltimore,” said America, frowning when England didn’t reply. “You’re going to attack Baltimore over pirates that don’t exist? Why are you doing this?”

England looked at him, choosing to say nothing and sit in the chair opposite America. Sitting down he clasped his hands in his lap to watch him quietly. “Do you need something to drink? Your throat may hurt from smoke inhalation.”

“All of me hurts,” he said, his voice low. He leaned back in the chair looking away from England. His stomach rolled and his ankle throbbed. 

“Yes... well... that is to be expected.” England sighed, running his hand through his hair as he leaned back. America could see the strain in his face. “I will let you off as soon as we can dock. You have my word on that one. If you are tired, I suggest that you go rest there. It will make things easier to ride out.” He gestured towards a hammock tucked away in a shadowy corner. 

America didn’t want to, but the draw of a place to sleep eventually won out. Pain and exhaustion drew him down into unconsciousness. 

***

_September 12, 1814_

When America woke up he could tell they were no longer outside Washington. The smell of smoke clung only to his clothes. He could smell a sharp bite of autumn in the air. How long had he been asleep?! The cabin was empty and America dragged himself up. He could hear voices outside the door. American and British.

“We have come to negotiate the return of the citizens that have been unlawfully taken--”

“We apologize for the inconvenience Mr. Key but we cannot allow anyone off the vessels while we are engaged. We shall consider your proposal tomorrow.” 

America pushed open the door and could see the scene in the middle of the deck. England stood beside his commander arranged against several American lawyers. Turning, England looked in his direction and excused himself, pushing America back into the cabin.

“What’s going on?” America asked.

“Glad to see you awake finally. Trying to rouse you conscious enough to eat and drink water for more than a week while you slept was frightful.” England ignored his question as he pulled the door to the cabin shut with a solid click behind him.

“I was out for that long... wait, England, where are we? What are they talking about?” England started herding him to sit back down and making some overture about food. “No, you need to tell me what’s going on, where have you taken me?” He grabbed England by the sleeve, his fingers shaking.

“Hey, calm down. It’s September the twelfth.” In turn England grasped his forearms, thumbs rubbing at his arms in a soothing manner. “We are just outside... Baltimore,” he said slowly, almost unwilling. 

“Baltimore. Not in the harbor?” He stepped away from England and went to the window, panic gripping his stomach. He breathed a sigh of relief when he could see they were still out in the bay. The mouth of the harbor was obstructed, a few masts still above the water where ships had been sunk to block the ability to sail. His fingers itched for a spyglass to see if the cannons were on the hillsides to each side. He could see the Star Fort’s battle flag snapping in the breeze. England hadn’t conquered the city yet. “What did your commander mean... something about a proposal tomorrow?”

“By tomorrow,” England said firmly, “I’ll have taken Baltimore.” 

America turned, eyes widening. “What?” The first crack of a cannon shot flying across the water, drew his eyes back to the fort. The shot fell short, crashing into the ocean. He could hear the shouts and orders about adjusting range. The shot was answered from the fort. His fingers dug into the wood. 

One cannon shot, then two, then more than America could count began to hammer towards the city.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying our story please leave a kudo or a comment! We really love getting your comments!
> 
> Some historical notes: Washington D.C. of 1814 was nothing like the Washington D.C. of today. At the time, it was literally still very swampy and very hot during the summer. Most residents would leave for homes or cottages in cooler areas. There were only about five blocks worth of buildings, with the most impressive being the Capitol Building. The President's Mansion was more of a manor house, not like the modern day White House. The British that were involved in the Burning of Washington were primarily veterans of the Napoleonic Wars. It was the only time that an invading force occupied Washington D.C. and the British held it for about 24 hours until a gale/possible hurricane that put out most of the fires/sent a tornado through the middle of town. The position was mostly symbolic, so they weren't concerned about holding it after making the point of destroying it.
> 
> Next chapter: The Star Spangled Banner is born and America and England try to make a peace out of the ashes.


	6. O Say Can You See?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England knows that more work is to be done before America understands the meaning of war, however, he's in for a surprise. Not to mention, making peace isn't always simple when so much has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: England failing at being monogamous (again), copious drinking.

_September 14, 1813_

_Baltimore Harbor_

His ears were ringing and he winced with every thunder of an exploding shell or the whistle of a cannon ball over the water. They disappeared into the darkness and America hoped they weren’t finding their targets. The shells exploded overhead. They would almost be beautiful if they weren’t bombarding his lands.

England had only let him up on deck when he threatened to make a scene. It didn’t, however, get the other nation to let him out of his sight. America could feel him there, just behind his shoulder where he was leaning on the rail. The sloop shuddered with every cannon blast. They had been firing nearly non-stop for hours. Muscles tense and weakness still clinging to him he was helpless but to watch. His people who were trapped on the ship as well, spectators. With each flash through the dark of the night, America had been looking for the flag above the fort. 

The colors still stood. They hadn’t surrendered.

Every possibility plagued his mind. He knew that some British soldiers had gone ashore, but it seemed that whatever feint they’d made at the fort had been unsuccessful. They were pinned down on the beach. 

For the first time in the long night, America looked over his shoulder at England. Tiredness and frustration lined England’s face. “Where do we go from here?” asked America.

***

“We do not go anywhere.” England arched a brow, looking at the younger. “We are staying on this boat until the siege is complete.” He watched the colorful display as a battle waged itself on shore. It would not be long now. England chanced another glance at his former colony. He was at least looking better after his long rest.

“I didn’t expect that you were going to let me go.” America turned fully around, the explosions now at his back. “I meant figuratively. How are things ever going to be normal? How do we make peace when we’ve been so cruel to each other?”

England was at a loss for words. Out of all things that he had expected to come out of America’s mouth, that certainly was no one of them. “Normal for us... is not normal for most other nations in terms of battle.” He crossed his arms. “France and I have battled on and off for as long as I can remember and, regrettably, for the most part we retain our amicable relations outside of wartime… yet the relations that we, you and I, have had outside of war is not something that can be returned to.”

America shook his head. “I don’t want us to go back. I... I just don’t want us to fight each other forever.” A cough caught him unawares and he doubled over. His ankle gave way and he caught himself on the railing of the ship. The flashes of the cannon balls and explosive shells illuminated his face. 

“Alfred!” Lurching forward England grabbed America by the shoulders, pulling him back from the side of the boat, dropping to his knees and pulling the young nation down onto the deck with him.  “What are you doing! You could have seriously hurt yourself!” 

America collapsed against him, his head dropping onto his shoulder. England inhaled sharply, once again the boy had done something he had not expected. Swallowing England looked around, no one seemed to be paying them any attention. His fingers itched, and while the opportunity presented itself, England gave in. Reaching up he stroked America’s hair in a soothing motion, shifting so that he leaned against the side of the boat, supporting him so that he may better support the younger nation. 

***

It was foolish, England was, after all, the reason he felt so poorly in the first place. He was the only one that had ever truly hurt him. Protector, enemy, stranger, desire, foe, teacher, invader... there were too many words for what England was. Holding him while he bombarded American cities, burning him down. Despite that, England was still England beneath all of the pomp and circumstance and vengeance he wore these days. He sighed, relaxing against him further, helpless in the moment. England could break him if he wanted to, so why wasn’t he?

“You are one of the most contradicting individuals I have ever met, Alfred.” England sighed, pressing his cheek atop of wheat colored hair. “I honestly don’t know what to do with you.” He fell silent for a moment. “You know... I had always planned on taking you out to sea one day, sailing the oceans together. Absurd really, looking back at it now. The things I did during my pirate days... all that would have scared a small child... but maybe I should have gotten you on one of my boats before now.”

It was surprisingly comforting being so close. With a movement, a shift, he could maybe tell England how he’d felt these past years. An arm wrapped around his waist or pressing his face into his neck, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. England might pull away and, in that moment, he felt that would destroy him like he imagined the blasts musts be doing to the walls of Fort McHenry. “We should do that, go exploring together. When we’re not at war, I mean.”

***

“That would be a miracle wouldn’t it.” England laughed dryly, hiding his shock at the others words. Three times this evening America had caught him by surprise. He hoped that this was not becoming the norm. He shifted to get more comfortable and without his consent a yawn came forth unchecked.

“How much longer will the bombardment last? Dawn?” asked America, his voice sounding hollow.

“Who knows?” England blinked slowly. “Whenever it is over I am getting a drink.” He chuckled. “God knows I could use one.”

“Do I get to have one?” 

England laughed quietly. “I guess. As long as I get to choose what it is. I won’t have any of that French swill anywhere near me.”

“Whiskey would probably suit.”

“I prefer ale.” England shrugged. “Or a scotch, rum. But whiskey will do I guess. Depends what I have on hand... and my flask is empty so that narrows our options.” England blinked. Was he really discussing alcohol with his former colony? He lifted his head, looking around again. What had come over him?!

America appeared to come to his own senses and he leaned up off him. “You could go looking for some rum after you help me up. If my city is going to fall I should probably watch.”

England shook his head. “Nice try. I am not letting you out of my sight. Knowing you, you would jump overboard and try to swim ashore”

“I considered it, not sure if I would make it though in the state I’m in.”

England nearly made some comment about the French and their fleeing capabilities, but bit the inside of his cheek instead. “Still not happening, lad.”

“Fine, but, please, help me up.”

“You are awfully demanding for a prisoner of war.” England arched a brow as he got to his feet. Nonetheless he grasped America’s hands and with a grunt pulled the larger boy up to the rail. He gripped the back of America’s shirt as the boy wobbled, his hand hot on the others lower back. “Can you stand on your own yet?”

“I don’t need you, England.”

England stepped back abruptly, flinching away him. “Trust me. You’ve made that abundantly clear.” His expression hardened, hands folded behind his back. “Now watch, like you wanted,” he said, cooly.

***

Gripping the wooden railing, America said, “Just because I don’t need you, doesn’t mean you can’t stand beside me.” _Or that I don’t want you._

England remained silent, staring out across the water with great focus. Whatever moment they had just had was over. America wasn’t sure what it was, but it was done.

They stood in silence as the sky began to change from night to dawn. The cannons had started to quiet, whether it was because they didn’t see the point any longer or if they were running low on ammunition, America wasn’t sure. He squinted, trying to see if the fort had struck its colors. He could just hear the first notes of reveille over the harbor. As the light reached the fort, America braced himself to see that it had fallen. 

Instead, a surge of hope shot through his chest. A large flag was raised above the fort, the colors being tugged at by the wind. It was his own flag, flying high above the fort. They hadn’t given up. He sagged with relief against the ship’s rail. It wasn’t over after all.

***

England stared in disbelief as he watched the flag rise. “You have got to be bloody kidding me,” he whispered. Blinking furiously as if it would change the image England watched horrified as it stayed the same. “What game is the devil playing at,” he croaked. Whirling around to find the officers left on his ship, they cringed. “Take Captain Jones back to my quarters before he falls overboard,” he barked.

***

America didn’t resist as sailors pulled him away from the rails. He glanced up at Mr. Key and the other men from the town. Key was bent over a piece of wrinkled paper, scribbling something down. The doors closed behind him and he was alone. Maybe England would let him go now, he just had to wait. The flag was still there. With that beautiful image in his mind he lay down on the bunk, letting the exhaustion from the night pull him down into sleep.

***

“He will probably not move an inch until the battle is done” England sighed leaning against the cabin door. Opening the cabin door he peered inside before waving for one of his officers. “Gather the Americans, tell them they will be rowing ashore with Captain Jones.”

“Yes, Lord Kirkland.” The man saluted and England watched as he hurried off. Turning around England entered the cabin. America didn't even budge. Heading to the writing desk England grabbed a spare piece of parchment and a quill. 

 ‘ _Meet me in Belgium._

_Arthur Kirkland.’_

Folding the letter in half he walked over to the cot America lay in. He looked so much like the young colony England remembered when he was asleep like this. Leaning over he tucked the small note into the boy’s jacket pocket. “This will be the last time I carry you,” England mumbled. With a quiet grunt he lifted the taller nation from the cot, the boys head lolling against his chest as he headed for the door. “You have gotten far too big for this.” 

Nudging the door open with his foot he walked steadily across the shaking deck and to the small boat that was being prepared for launch. When England reached the boat the Americans inside helped him settle their nation where he wouldn’t fall out. Stepping back, he watched as the boat was lowered into the water.

***

England was gone. He could feel it. 

He blinked at the ceiling, not expecting to wake up on dry land. He was at an inn near the harbor, he could hear the bustle of people downstairs and the smell of food from the kitchens. His uniform jacket was hung over the back of the chair and he leaned up. As America picked up his coat, a folded piece of paper fell onto the floor. He unfolded it and read the message. “Peace it is, then,” said America, putting the note back into his pocket. Breakfast could happen first, then it just took arranging travel to get to Belgium and meet with the delegates.

***

_November 13, 1814_

_Brussels, Belgium_

“This gelding is amazing, his gait is as smooth as cream, Laura!” England’s praise was loud as he urged the blond horse he rode into a canter. Belgium followed behind him with a laugh, her large skirts a decorative plum around her saddle and mare. That morning when England had arrived in Brussels at Laura’s request, he was not sure what shocked him more. The fact that she was in skirts or that she had announced a ball she was hosting. A break of sorts for Europe, a way to forget the terrors raged by Napoleon's reign over France. 

He had barely a moment to breath before she swept him away, forced him into riding clothes, and all but dragged him down to the stables. His arguments of it being too cold, that the snow could cause problem were brushed off with a wave.

“I am glad you are pleased, Arthur.” She shook her head in amusement, urging her horse after his. The English Empire slowed his horse into a walk, letting her catch up. 

“And I am glad to see that despite being part of the _Première République Française_ , that you are doing quite well.”

“I have weathered worse.” Belgium shrugged. She looked to the sky, gauging the time by the sun. Despite the heavy blanket of snow that glittered beneath the sun's light, the sky was a deep blue, undisturbed by clouds. If their luck continued the night sky would remain clear as well. “The others should be arriving soon,” she commented, a look of amusement spreading over her features as she watched him. England’s head turned left and right as he took in the snow burdened trees, thoroughly delighted with the morning ride. “We need to head back soon, England, I have to greet the other guests.”  

“Yes, you’re right.” England looked back at her with a small sound of disappointment. “Laura, do you sometimes wish that you could stop time?”

“That... is a sudden question,” Belgium responded. She fell silent for a moment, as if pondering her answer. “Well... yes and no. I do at times wish for that, but maybe not so much as in the stopping of, but in the rewinding or forwarding of. It is only in the happiest of times that I think to stop time.”

“To avoid the miserable times.” England nodded. “But of course it is because of the hard times that make the happy times so potent.” He sighed, leaning back slightly in his saddle.

“Oh come now, let's not be so glum on today. Today we are having a ball! Let us forget everything.” Belgium smiled. England missed the expression turning into a wicked grin. “Just like you can forget winning this race!” With a sharp kick her horse bolted into a gallop.

“Now that is just cheating!” England laughed, spurring his gelding after her. A thrill of adrenaline rushed through his veins, washing away his previous moment of sulleness. “Come on, faster!” he urged his horse, letting out of whoop of success as they began gaining on Laura and her mare. “I thought you knew better than to challenge the British Empire, Belgium!” 

England laughed as he overtook her. The gelding overtook her mare with ease and the trees began to thin, opening into manicured grounds of a grand estate. Dropping the reins of his horse, England pushed hard in his stirrups, decades of riding coupled with the gelding’s easy gate made it easy to stand. Throwing his arms open wide England crowed with abandonment. Things were looking up.

***

America shifted uncomfortably in his new jacket. He still hated fancy clothes. He tried not to feel out of place as he walked out onto the balcony. They weren’t strangers, as he’d met many of them before after he’d won independence. However, he felt like the strange one. He could name their histories from England’s tutelage, but it was so very different to know them.

“America! Come over here!” America smiled, glad to see at least someone he knew well. Prussia grabbed him around the shoulder and pulled him into the small group of nations. Spain rolled his eyes and sighed. America understood why, but he didn’t particularly care for it.

“What’s wrong, Spain, worried I’m going to get Florida one of these days?” asked America, a grin on his face. Prussia snickered as Spain picked up his wine glass and walked away in a huff. That left Portugal, who was eyeing him with curiosity. America could remember the way they met as though it was yesterday, Portugal half-dressed coming from England’s rooms... He’d been watching him intently when America walked up. Were they still...? Portugal turned, a friendly smile on his face.

“America,” he said, inclining his head.

“Portugal.”

“Don’t worry about them, Alfred, come watch England break his neck on horseback.” Prussia swung him around and America could see England down below, racing across the green, standing straight in his stirrups as if he had no fear of falling. His eyes widened. England seemed different, lighter somehow as if everything was simple in this situation. He hadn’t worn that face in decades around him. America’s heart fluttered when he realized how much he missed it. If only England would smile that way at him again.

***

The day had been well spent with mingling, hot drinks, and playing in the snow with the children of royals and delegates. As the sun began to set everyone had returned indoors to dress and prepare for the evening's festivities. England turned in the mirror, taking in the sight of his evenings costume. He was adorned in a dark blue tailcoat, embroidered with the same gold thread that embroidered his blue trousers and white waistcoat. All according to the English court dress requirements. Tugging at his coat sleeves he heaved a sigh when he heard the door to his guest quarters open.

“And to think that this morning there was no sour look on your face.” 

“For a second I thought you were Gilbert.” England sighed, turning he nodded a hello to Antonio who was leaning in the doorway, dressed brazenly in red. “Oh,” he turned back to the mirror and added as an afterthought. “Sod off.”

“Oh come now. You were even smiling this morning on horseback. It was a near miracle.” Spain teased as the door opened again and this time Portugal entered into the room.

“Are my guest chambers to be a gathering room?” England said flatly, striding across the room to his writing desk.

“Oh come on, Arthur, I brought you a pretty lady on my arm.” Portugal protested. In confusion, England turned to look at the newest addition to his chamber, a smile lit his face.

“Ithemba” he grinned, kneeling down to scoop up the girl in a hug. “Oh dear, you are getting a bit big to be doing this.” His smile grew. The personified colony, Cape of Good Hope, appeared to be around eight years of age. 

Setting her back down on his feet he held her hand, twirling her around. Just recently he had taught her how to dance at court, in case the need ever arose. England remembered doing the same for Canada and America, yet it seemed the the time never came for America. It briefly had for Canada, that one time a ball had been held during America’s rebellion. “Now, for the sake of everyone else's problems with names, do you remember how you are being introduced tonight?”

“Yes.” She nodded “It shall be the English form of my name. To all the human delegates I am Hope Vanuit de Kaap, a distant cousin of yours.” She smiled and England patted her head.

“Very good!” he smiled and before England could say another word the gong rang to signify it was time to enter the hall. Taking Hope's hand he nodded at Spain and Portugal. “Well ,shall we?” 

“Of course. My lady, may I have your other hand” Vicente gave a deep bow, winking at the colony who beamed and thrust her hand into his. With a roll of his eyes, Spain led the way out and down the hall to the dance hall.

***

Prussia had asked him to come to his chamber before he went downstairs to be announced, so he came knocking on the door feeling incredibly fidgety. This sort of occasion with so much pomp and circumstance seemed outlandish. True, there were parties at home, but nothing of this scale. He’d needed a tailor at the last minute, realizing awkwardly enough that the clothes he’d brought were not fine enough for a ball. America gave up with one of the cuffs of his coat with a huff. He’d come to negotiate peace with England not rub shoulders with the rest of Europe. Well, the rest of Europe minus France. America wondered if Belgium had simply failed to invite him, considering that he had been the cause of the recent fighting.

He knocked and the door opened to reveal a nation that seemed to be around his age and he recognized. “Hey, you’re Germany, right? You remember me?”

“Yes, you failed to negotiate a trade agreement with France.”

“Maybe let’s not talk about that.” America laughed and brushed past him into the room to where Prussia was beckoning him. The German brothers were more soberly dressed than some of their counterparts and from the looks of things, Prussia had already been into some of the after dinner liquor. 

“You two need to loosen up and live a little. Germany you are too serious and America stop pining after him and just say something.” America’s immediate blush matched Germany’s as the other younger nation tried to hush up his older brother.

“ _Bruder,_ you’re embarrassing your guest. And me.”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” America threw in, just to make sure nobody dredged up the old rumor. He’d thought France had put that to bed years ago. Germany threw him an apologetic look. 

“You still haven’t learned the art of lying,” said Prussia, patting him on the head. “C’mon little brothers, you should always enjoy a ball that’s being thrown at someone else’s expense.”

He marched them down the stairs into the activity of the ball room. Fine clothes moved on their persons in a wash of color with plainer servants moving in and around them in order to offer food or drink. Fires burned in hearths, but the room still seemed cool thanks to the November weather. Prussia rushed off to somewhere else with Germany in tow, leaving America to wander. Many of the other nations didn’t know him on sight and the humans mostly ignored him.

Although dinner had not yet been served there was some dancing already underway from the small orchestra situated at one end of the hall. America found a place near the wall, watching the groups of people. The music was cheerful and the entire scene made him smile. A mop of messy hair caught his attention on the far side of the room. It was England smiling at the little girl he was dancing with. America watched him, a feeling that he’d thought died on a battlefield stirring once again. “Keep wearing that look on your face and everyone’s going to know.” 

America jumped, turning to find Prussia with a fresh wine glass in his hand. “Know what?”

“How you feel about him. You’ll have to wait until the nation's only event to be able to get any closer to him though.”

“Nations only?”

“Where we can be free to be ourselves after these sorts of events. Might be your chance, eh?” Prussia elbowed him in the ribs and America tried to laugh him off. He went back to watching England, the memory of the last ball he’d seen him at causing a flush to come to his cheeks.

***

The orchestra's song faded to a stop, gentlemen bowing and ladies lowering into curtseys. England knew that by the end of evening his cheeks were going to a be sore from all the smiling. Taking Hope's hand he lead her off the dance floor to where they had left Portugal. England frowned as they approved the Portuguese man. Portugal was normally all smiles and kind touches, yet he now stood with a rigid back and a scowl souring his features. “Vicente?” England stopped in front of the man, displeased with the look on his face. 

“You were being watched.” Vicente said flatly, jerking his head as he stared across the hall. Turning around England felt his stomach twist as his eyes clashed with ocean blue. England knew that America was going to be here, that was unavoidable, but he has not expected to new nation to be staring at him from across a dance floor.

“Is he a friend?” Hope’s questioned punctured the tension that welled around the trio.

“Not really.” England breathed. Should he approach America or wait for the boy to do so?

***

The way England’s face had changed hurt more than America expected. England’s mask had fallen into place and America would rather have any face but that one. In fact, he didn’t like the way Portugal was standing so close to England either, what made him so important? America was about to go and ask when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

The woman was small, her face friendly and maybe even a little mischievous. “You’re Alfred? America?” She added his nation name in a whisper, leaning close. America nodded. “I figured. Prussia told me all about how to find you, I’m Laura. Belgium. Would you be so kind as to escort me to dinner, they’ll be calling for it any minute now.” 

“Of course,” said America, offering her his arm which she took with enthusiasm. She threw a glance across the ballroom and America couldn’t help but think she was looking at England, too. She directed him towards the edge of the hall. “I apologize for missing you when I arrived.”

“I was so busy. I am honored, however, to serve as the location for your treaty with England.”

_If only he hadn’t been dragging his heels..._ “Hopefully, we can come to an agreement.” She nodded, looking up at him, a smile coming to her face as she considered something. America wanted to ask her what it was, but he nearly ran headlong into the Netherlands when they went around the corner.

“Big brother! You shouldn’t sneak up on me!” fussed Belgium, swatting the Netherlands on the arm with her gloved hand. The stoic nation was unfazed. America really hoped he wasn’t going to call in the loan in front of all of these people. “Leave him alone! We’re having a ball not conducting a business meeting! Don’t mind him, my brother seems to forget he’s more than gold coins and counting houses,” she added, pulling him further into the dining room. 

The smell of food wafted from the corners of the room and America’s stomach grumbled appreciatively. More people were filtering in the room.

“You sit here,” she said, directing him toward a chair, “I have to go join my brother further down, but I have some engaging table partners for you.” She left him in the chair, feeling a little bewildered by the sheer expanse of the place setting in front of him.

***

“Laura always has to meddle.” England heaved a sigh as one of the servants directed him to his seat. Right next to America, the fates must be having a jolly good laugh at his expense. 

“What do you mean, Big Brother?”

“It's nothing, Hope. I'm just being grouchy, I'm hungry” He smiled and moved towards their seats. Now to put Hope between them or not? He shook his head with a resigned sigh. England couldn't put the poor girl through that. Grabbing the top of the second chair to America’s left he pulled it out with a little bow as he helped Hope into it. The smaller girl seemed delighted. As he pushed her chair in he looked in America's direction. “Good evening, Master Jones.” 

***

America looked up. “En... Arthur. When Miss Laura said I would have an interesting dinner partner I didn’t think she meant you.” He couldn’t help but remember how strange their last interaction had been in Baltimore. England had been almost kind, apologetic even, and then had turned hard and stony at the sight of America’s flag above Fort McHenry. “I wager she wants us to socialize like normal people.” 

***

“Master Jones.” England stressed the title of formality as he stood behind Hope’s chair. “May I introduce you to Lady Hope Vanuit de Kaap, she is of distant relations,” he said slowly, the young girl smiling at Alfred. England sized up America for a brief moment as he waited. He knew America had seen him and Hope on the dance floor, had been watching them nonetheless if Vicente’s reaction was anything to judge by. However, he was near one hundred percent certain that Gilbert nor Ludwig had bothered telling the boy exactly who he was attending the evening festivities with. 

America looked around England to smile at her. “Hello Hope, I’m Alfred.” He made an over the top greeting and she giggled. It was when he’d touched her hand that he realized she was like them. “I’m from the United States, where are you from?”

England heaved a sigh as Hope gave him a confused look. Leaning over he allowed the girl to whisper her question in his ear before nodding “As I taught you.” He smiled. Large dark eyes turned and focused on Alfred. “Please Master Jones,” she said, focusing hard on her pronunciation. “Lady Hope if you would be so kind...and...as not to offend me,” she said slowly. Taking a deep breath the colony continued. “I come from the Cape of Good Hope, a British colony in Africa.” She nodded. 

“Good girl.” England smiled, placing his hand atop her head and she beamed at the praise. England had foresaw that if he and Ithemba were to run into Alfred together that the lad would forego any proper sort of introductions, as his stubborn streak would prevail. England turned his eyes onto America “Master Jones. As Lady Hope has asked I do hope you remember to address us properly as it would be rude to ignore the customs of Lady Bakker’s court, as we are in a European country,” he said cooly. 

“Since when are you in the habits of dragging col... er... citizens of your colonies to dinners in Europe?” America asked. The little colony had turned to talk to an older woman who was fawning over her on the other side. England studiously ignored him as the first course was being served. “I asked you how many times to come with you? You said, _it’s not safe for young colonies to be away from their borders for very long._ Why did you lie if it’s obviously not true?”

“Pieces of her treaty needed to be worked out, and as you can see we are in a Dutch house. And she was a Dutch colony.” He shot a glare at Alfred. “I couldn’t take you away, not with Francis and Antonio still running amuck over there.” He picked up his spoon as soup was served. “Plus, despite her appearance she is no young colony. She was a nation trying to enter into the world when the Kingdom of the Netherlands arrived to colonize. She has had a completely different upbringing than you, a much more tedious and rocky one so please do not compare her to yourself.” He gave him a hard look.

“Fine I won’t. Just don’t compare me to them anymore then either,” he said.

“Trust me, I haven't in years. The amount of stress that was lifted off of my shoulders when I no longer had to run around and make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed was a relief. I believe I gained back some of the years you stole from me with your antics.” He cast a sideways glance at America, but with a slight shake of his head, he turned back to his food. The wine stole his attention. “Ugh. Stupid Francis shoving his nose in Laura’s business. I don't come to Belgium for French wine, I come for Belgian beer,” he muttured. Glancing around the table he caught sight of Gilbert who was also wrinkling his nose as his wine was served. The albino caught Arthur’s gaze and wrinkled his nose as he lifted the glass politely

“Later?” Gilbert mouthed.

Arthur nodded fervently before mouthing back, “Beer.” 

Both men shot a glance at their hostess, coloring in embarrassment as they found her watching them both. She shook her head in amusement before nodding. “Beer. Later,” she mouthed and both men laughed. It seemed their hostess also had different ideas for what to drink at the dinner that night.

Prussia caught America’s gaze and winked at him. England was certain he was scheming something, while they’d been admirable partners throughout this conflict his involvement in America’s business was still a sore spot. Germany looked like he was trying his best to contain Prussia as his brother laughed loudly at something someone else said. 

“Who’s that Gilbert’s talking to?” America asked.

“Gilbert, ah yes.” Arthur took in the sight of the nervous young man Prussia was talking with. It had been awhile since he had seen the green eyed brunette, although nervous was not a way Arthur would have described him in the past. “That is Toris Laurinaitis, Lithuania.” He nodded, and held up his glass as another nation noticed them. Arthur smiled as Feliks lifted his wine glass as well, green eyes locking onto America. “And that, the one on Toris’s right, who is staring at you is his lover Feliks Łukasiewicz, Poland. One of the best men I have personally ever met.” Arthur chuckled as Feliks turned to pull Toris’s attention away from Gilbert like a forlorn puppy. 

***

America nodded, making a mental note to introduce himself later. He turned to his food, trying to keep track of all the manners he’d reviewed on the way back. He’d braced himself for feeling homesick based on the last time he’d been in Europe, but it struck him differently this time. 

“Hey, did you hear about Lewis and Clark and their discoveries?”

“I may have heard it in passing. I admit I've been a bit busy” England shrugged one shoulder, looking around the table at the other nations “Ah, I was wondering where the other Baltic states were….oh dear give it five seconds and Eduard is gonna spill his drink everywhere” He looked back at America. “I take it this Lewis and Clark were those expeditioners that were going to the west?” 

He took note of the other nations, too. He tried to picture the map of Europe in his head, placing all the countries and kingdoms. He couldn’t be sure but he thought he even saw Hesse stepping over to say something to Prussia. The German brothers really did look alike.

“Yes! You should have seen some their discoveries! They made it all the way to the Pacific and the Oregon Country!” America couldn’t help the hint of pride that came into his voice with remembering it. He’d gone on a later expedition, even though he’d been aching to be on the first.

***

“Fantastic,” Arthur said flatly, looking up as the first course was cleared away and the second brought out. “Glad to see everything is going well.” He tacked on and England felt a sliver of surprise when he realized he actually meant it.

***

“I can’t wait to see what else is out there. The forests are just endless and remember the buffalo? They say they saw herds so large they went horizon to horizon. Can you imagine?” It was funny almost, talking to England about something other than their problems. 

The second course arrived.

“I distinctly remember you manhandling a bison,” England responded dryly. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. For the next six months, anytime I couldn’t see you I was in a state of near panic. What were you going to do this time?” 

America smiled at the memory. “I remember that. I was fine you know, you always did worry too much.” He took a bite of his food. “I’m going to study them. Maybe hunt a few. They do taste good if you remember.”

“I do not worry too much!” England protested with a glare. “I worry just the perfect amount thank you very much.” He huffed. “You were a boy approaching something I knew absolutely nothing about! Of course I panicked! You could have been killed!”

“I wasn’t afraid,” America replied. “Besides, I trusted you would back me up when I got in trouble.”

***

At that England paused, his salad fork halfway to his mouth. That was a phrase he had never expected to hear ever again. England put his fork down and reached for his wine glass instead. He had intended on taking a sip, but instead drained the glass dry. “Well,” he commented, slightly raspy. “Good to hear it. Even in the past tense.”

“Maybe someday it can be present tense again,” he said. 

England waved for one of the footmen to refill his glass, he chose not to respond to the statement. Instead he cleared his throat and diverted “So...I guess you do not know many of the nations here.” England said quickly.

America shook his head, taking his cue. “Just a few. I haven’t really been able to socialize much.”

“Well, I guess tonight would be the night then.” England rolled the wine in his glass around absentmindedly before his head snapped to his left. “Young lady, if you don’t eat your vegetables then there will be no sweets for you,” he warned the young colony sitting at his right side.

“But Big Brother-”

“No buts.” He frowned. The young colony pouted and turned back to the plate of vegetables she had been pushing around.

“But it's gross…”

“Half.” England sighed. “Half and I’ll count it good.” He watched as the girl grimaced but nodded, cringing as she stabbed at the greens. He turned his attention back to America. “Pardon...where were we? Ah yes, nations. Yes, the evening will be good. Feliks said he wanted to meet you since he already met the other twin and Toris expressed the same sentiment since he has met neither of you.”

“I’d like to meet them too, truth be told.”

“As long as Ivan doesn't drag Toris around. He usually behaves as long as Feliks is present. I think he is aware Feliks would have no problem putting a fist to his face or a sword in his belly.” England shook his head.

“Ivan seems all right, even if he is a little weird. He wants to be friends with me.”

England’s grip on his glass tightened, lips pressing into a thin line “You have always gravitated towards dangerous things.” He breathed. “I implore you to explore that relationship with caution. The ‘friends’ that Ivan has have never been quite the same after he had his way with them.” His eyes flicked to Toris, who was jumpy at best. “I've seen it and Feliks has told me things…” He shook his head “You would do best to steer away from that one.”

“I’ll take it into consideration.” 

England chatted with others around them as the evening went on, polite conversations and laughter filled the room. When the final course was cleared everyone began to make their way to the dance hall. Yet, before England could even push back his chair two hands grasped his shoulders, looking up he saw Vicente smiling down at him. 

“I have come to save you, _meu especial_.”  

“I was wondering where you had gone off to,” England responded, slightly frowning as Vicente glanced at America. 

“Come let us be gone to more pleasant things.”

“Well, I did promise you some of my time.” England nodded before looking back at America “The civility was nice, but it seems as if I shall be excusing myself now. Don’t go far though, I will be introducing you to Feliks and Toris shortly.” England’s frown deepened as he noticed that America hadn’t even glanced at him when he spoke, but was staring at Portugal

*** 

With England gone, America was a bit at a loss. Everything had been going fine until Portugal decided to slide into the conversation. Not to mention he’d been so familiar! Groups drifted in and out, and America found himself standing next to Germany on the edge of the ballroom. “You’re not going to dance?”

“I don’t find dancing particularly pleasant, well, this sort anyway.”

“Yeah, me either. Hey, I heard you were working on some new machines.” For the first time, he saw Germany’s eyes light up with interest. For the remainder of an hour they traded ideas and America could forget about the emotions that England had sent spinning through his chest.

***

“I am so glad that part of the evening is over with.” England sighed, arm in arm with Belgium as they left the large dance hall, heading for a smaller one. Hope had been sent to bed an hour prior and that had been a relief in itself. Now that they no longer had to mingle with the humans they could relax even further. 

“I completely agree.” Belgium nodded, before her small nose scrunched up in distaste. “I also would like to get something to drink that isn't that horrid French stuff.” She frowned, England chuckling at her expression. 

“I second that motion.” The pair made their way to a set of decorative double doors. However, before they could reach them they burst open, a laughing Prussia and Spain tumbling out onto the floor, and Austria’s shouts could be heard from inside. 

“There you two are!” Spain laughed hard “We were wondering when you would arrive!”

“Come join me!” Prussia shouted from his sprawled position on the floor, holding two beer steins aloft. Anyone who didn’t know the red eyed man would take him for a drunk. Yet, those who did knew that it was impossible for any of the German brothers to get truly wasted on beer. Gilbert was, at the end of the day, just a loud person by nature. “Come, Arthur! Join awesome me! I started already but I won’t hold it against you that you can’t keep up!” he heckled the blond standing above him, shoving a beer stein in his direction.

“Oh no you don’t!” Belgium shook her head in amusement. “If you get Arthur drunk again than you are taking care of him tonight.”

“Laura! I am not that bad.” England scowled, the expression deepening when all three stopped to stare at him. “Gentlemen and lady, don’t get belligerent,” England muttered, snatching the drink from Prussia’s hand and stepping over the two to stomp into the room.

“I am surrounded by imbeciles,” England muttered, tilting his head back to down the beer, Within moments of lowering the glass, a servant appeared with another one. England nodded his thanks and looked around the room. Spotting Feliks and Toris huddled in a corner together, he then turned his attention to searching around the room for Alfred. He spotted the blond talking with Ludwig by the fireplace and watching him.  Crooking his finger at Alfred, he turned and headed towards the two nations in the corner.

America excused himself to come over to where England had joined the other two. “Should you be drinking that?” he said, coming close to England’s shoulder.

“Didn’t you just yell at me to mind my own business?” England whispered, leaning into America’s personal space. Stepping back he placed his hand in the small of younger's back and nudged him forward. “Toris, Feliks. This is Alfred.”

“Wow, you totally look just like Matthew.” Poland laughed as he thrust his hand forward for a handshake. “I’m Poland. This is Toris. Liet. Lithuania. He’s quiet. Doesn't say much. Unless you get him talking and then he won't stop.” He grinned, flipping his hair over his shoulder. 

“Feliks, don’t be rude.” Lithuania sighed, rubbing at his temple before offering a small smile “Pleased to meet you. As Feliks said, I am Lithuania.

“Now.” Poland started up again, leaning over into America’s space. “I have a very important question for you. Liet and I have a bet to settle and your brother-”

“Feliks!” England interrupted “No!”

“The bed-wetting bet.” Poland said, quickly. England groaned, slapping his forehead. “Your brother said that it wasn’t him who wet the bed the most. So that means it must have been you, right? Come on now, Liet and I have a bet to settle.” He grinned. 

“I am sorry, Arthur,” Lithuania mumbled as the empire downed his beer, another servant appearing as if by magic to replace it with a full stein. 

“Feliks, I am gonna kick your arse.” England muttured. “There Alfred, you’ve met them. Let's go.” He tried. Maybe if he could get America away fast enough there would be no need for a scene.

***

America allowed the herding, not sure what to even say to such an assertion. He certainly wasn’t going to give them an answer at any rate. “Where’d they get a story like that? Woah, careful England.”

America caught England around the middle when the other stumbled.

“You need to pay attention,” England muttered, stepping away, cheeks already turning red because of the beer. Americas grip around his waist startled him, did America always run so hot? “Did you not hear how Toris, Feliks and I were addressing each other in private? You said you wanted to be a nation. So pay attention.” 

“I’m paying attention.” England was herding him back the other way now. Poland was eyeing the entire scenario with interest. “Uh, I’m sorry.” He wasn’t really sure why he was apologizing to Poland and Lithuania. Neither seemed phased by England’s progressively drunken behavior.

“Well, I guess you'll be the one taking care of him tonight.” Feliks laughed. “That is usually Francis’s job” The long haired blond only laughed harder when England gestured rudely at him. “You might want to get him some water. He’s been putting them down fast, and I see Gilbert and Antonio eyeing him. That means things are about to get real interesting.” Poland dropped his head on Lithuania’s shoulder. “Go on now. We shall talk about that bet I need settled at breakfast. That will be totally awesome,” he added, watching as England tipped another beer back.

America followed England as he stumbled off toward some of the other nations in the room. “Hey, England, don’t you think you should slow down?”

“You're still wet behind the ears! Don’t tell me what to do,” England grouched, coming to a stop when Portugal stepped in front of him. 

“Arthur... how about I take you up to the room. I thought you said you weren’t drinking tonight.” Portugal reached for the empire’s beer, other hand gripping his forearm.

“What are you doing?” England frowned, holding his glass out of reach. He allowed the Portuguese man to hold onto him, but there was no way he was taking his beer. “I am not drunk. Tipsy.”

“Okay, tipsy,” Portugal soothed before casting a cool look at America. “I can handle it from here, Alfred. You can go back to socializing.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling it,” America said, frowning. Portugal’s frowned deepened in the same way it had done long ago, when he’d barred America from coming into England’s presence. If Portugal wanted to make an issue of it, he was ready.

An arm wrapped around Portugal from behind, surprising the other nation. Spain pulled him to his chest. “Come now, Portugal, you don’t get to have a monopoly on England.” He began to say something that America couldn’t quite catch into Portugal’s ear and Portugal turned bright red, elbowing Spain in the stomach to get away.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you!?” Portugal snapped, brushing at his clothing as if he could erase Spain’s touch. Prussia and Spain laughed, money changing hands. “You’re fucking drunk!” 

“I wouldn’t have done it except for the gold, _mi pollito._ You are too serious,” said Spain, an amused expression still on his face at how flustered he’d managed to make Portugal.  

Portugal stepped back from Spain in disgust. “Next time you touch me I'll break your damn hand!” That just sent off another wave of snickering from the culprits and more than a few attempts at feigned disinterest from everyone else in the room. America considered moving away from the entire scene, but then Portugal grabbed England by the wrist. “Come on Arthur, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with Antonio. We’re leaving.”

***

“Uh.” England felt himself at a loss for words, the scene sobering him up just a bit. The competition between Spain and Portugal had grown rather legendary, everyone knew about it. Strange for Spain to pull such a stunt. He couldn’t be jealous. England narrowed his eyes at the taller brunette in thought. The day had started with oddness and apparently decided to continue along that route. England looked down as the grip on his wrist intensified and Portugal gave a small tug.

“Come on Arthur! Let’s leave these two. We have better things to do.”

“Vicente…” Portugal seemed truly upset. “Antonio, take this.” He handed the drink to the Spaniard. The man reeked of beer, he really must be drunk. With a low whisper he added, “I’ll be back.” 

He turned back to face Portugal who was now fuming. “Come on, let's speak in private,” England said, calmly “Head into the hall. Let me alert Laura that we are stepping out for a moment.” 

***

“Fine.” Portugal watched England for a moment. His gaze settled on America and he frowned, stepping close. “Stay away from him if you know what's good for you. You’ve already caused enough problems,” Portugal hissed, the scent of alcohol heavy on him as well. “Now you go gossip with the others while I go upstairs and bed an empire.” He grinned, then turned on his heel and stomped into the hall. 

The confirmation of what America had suspected about their first ever encounter hit him like a rockslide, and Portugal wasn’t going to get away with it. He stormed out in the hall after him, shrugging off Prussia when he tried to stop him. Portugal whirled around once they were in the hall, raising an eyebrow as if waiting for whatever America was going to say. “Who do you think you are?” America demanded. Portugal sighed and shook his head as if America were nothing more than a petulant child. America balled his fists. He may not be at his full strength, but he was certain he could make Portugal sorry for underestimating him. 

Portugal spread his arms wide “I am Vicente Matos. The nation of Portugal. The most frequent lover of the British Empire.” He smirked “And what are you? An upstart nation who is pining after my lover. Everyone knows you carry a torch for him.” He laughed, his smirking grin taking on a malicious tint. “And guess what? While you are sitting across the Atlantic moping about your unreturned affections I am christening every surface of his private chambers again and again. That's who I am.” He gave a mocking bow.

America didn’t hesitate, grabbing Portugal by the collar and pushing him backwards into the wall. Portugal’s initial surprise slid into a mask of contempt. “I think you’ve mistaken who I am. _I_ am the only nation whose managed to bring England to his knees. _I_ am the only one who has beaten him in a war in the modern era. _I_ am something the world has never seen before.” He pushed Portugal away. 

Portugal started laughing. “The only reason you won was because Francis aided you! Did you forget that? Without French forces you would have been crushed into the mud!” He grinned “Arthur has been helping me fight my revolution, too busy for you! And even now, you still call him England! You aren’t even close enough to call him by his name!” 

America squared his shoulders. The words hurt, but he had a blow of his own to offer. “You know, I’ve been seeing a lot more of Brazil lately. I’m sure she’d love to know that the reason her big brother can’t be bothered to check in on her is because he’s too busy bending over for Britain.”

“Don’t you fucking dare bring Lu into this!” Portugal snapped. Before America could react, Portugal was off the wall and a fist slammed into the American’s jaw knocking him off his feet. Lips curling back over white teeth Portugal launched himself at the American, arm drawn back again. 

However, the hit never landed, instead the sound of a slap bounced off the hall walls. Portugal dropped to his ass, clutching at his face in shock. Looking up from buckled shoes he stared back into green eyes dark with rage. Portugal stared up at England in shock, his surprise obvious that the British nation would backhand him in anger.

“What the hell are you doing?” England snarled as he stood between the two young nations sprawled across the floor. 

“Arthur, I-”

“It’s unacceptable,” England interrupted. “You two claim to be adults, and yet you brawl out here in the hall! In somebody else's home! As guests! It’s an insult! And you, with your shouting! Did you know that the door was not completely closed!? That we could hear parts of your conversation in the room!?” 

America looked. The door was, indeed, partially open, wider from when England flung it open. Now, Prussia and Germany stood in the doorway. Prussia with his back against the frame, shaking his head as he nursed a beer and Germany, standing at the ready to help if things became more physical. 

“My most frequent lover was it?!” England hissed, bending over the brown haired nation. “Really now? You claim to be my most frequent and yet last night you spent it alone. No one to warm your sheets, and yet I assure you _I_ was not alone! I have been here some time and so have others! I have definitely not been alone every night!” England snarled. “And I assure you that I have a bedmate tonight and it is certainly not you!”

Portugal's eyes widened in offense as he glanced again at the door, shock crossing his features as he noticed the youngest German brother was turning a shade of pink. “Arthur-”

“Don’t.” England warned. “You are an embarrassment that will not be welcomed back into my chambers for the foreseeable future!” Portugal seemed to deflate, although his face seemed still, too proud to show emotions. “Now I will speak with you when the sight of you no longer makes me ill. You have embarrassed me! Speaking of our private affairs to a third party, nay a whole room with your shouting. Now, I suggest you go before I lose my temper and defend my own honour!” 

England fell silent, glaring at Portugal as he got to his feet. The green eyed brunette searched England’s face as if there were any way to get in his good graces immediately. When all Portugal saw was cold fury, he shot a glance of anger in America’s direction before striding down the hallway, putting a hand to his face. 

Taking a deep breath England straightened, looking at the two brothers in the doorway. He shook his head when the two cast a concerned glance in America’s direction. Prussia shrugged and patted Germany on the shoulder before leaving the doorway, the younger following him. It was only when they were completely alone did England finally turn to look at America. His mouth was pressed into a thin line and he remained silent, waiting for the other to speak.

America stared at him in bewilderment, feeling angry and agitated about the entire scene. Things had been going fairly well, but now everything had gone completely sour. He looked away from England trying not to paint a portrait in his mind of him with half of the people in the other room. “If you would make my apologies to Belgium. I’m going home,” America said.

Shaking his head, England looked at him quietly for a moment before uttering five small words, “I am disappointed in you.”

America stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh. It was the only thing he could do to keep any other emotion to well up. He was not going to make a fool of himself any further. It was impossible, it seemed, that England would ever look at him any other way than he’d always had. “What’s new, England? You’ve been disappointed in me for years. I used to think you were so wonderful, that you could do no wrong. Then you failed me. You treated me like baggage. I don’t know why I bothered to expect anything different. I’m leaving.” He pushed himself up from the floor, intending to go back to his rooms and begin packing.

***

Even a nation's body does funny things every once in awhile England thought briefly. For one moment he was content to stand there, absorbing the hurtful words for another time and watch America walk away. And then in the next he was grabbing America’s wrist and pulling him around. His free hand reached up, touching America’s cheek. “I saw Portugal’s hit land, and I was so worried he had actually hurt you. He didn’t did he?”

Eyes widening, America froze underneath England’s touch. His mind taking a moment to process the question. He swallowed. “I’ll be fine. I... you know me.” He smiled, the expression ringing false.

England watched him for just a moment. Licking his lips, England opened his mouth to respond, yet nothing came out. Closing his mouth, his eyes raked over the others features. America really had changed, and not only in height, which was the thing that seemed to take him by surprise every time he saw him. England had been close to him all evening, underneath various lighting, different angles, and even varying states of sobriety. However, he had not stopped to truly look at his ex-colony. 

At the thought of ‘ex-colony,’ his chest tightened painfully, yet it no longer took his breath away like it once had. Searching the other’s face England noticed the subtle differences. America’s face, while still fairly rounded, had taken on sharper angles, speaking towards his growth. The baby fat was gone. And eyes, still that “drowning in the ocean” blue were no longer filled with a child’s innnocence, but something else. America had finally seen more of the world. He wasn't the same Alfred that plagued his dreams of listlessness. Once again England opened his mouth, yet this time words came forth “Do I know you, Alfred?”

Surprise crossed America’s face. He licked his lips, as if his mouth was dry. “Maybe not.” 

At America’s admission, England felt as if lead had dropped into his belly, an unpleasant weighty sensation. “No, I suppose I don’t. For no slight from Vicente should have prompted such a reaction from you and yet here we are.” He swallowed “As you said, you managed to bring England to his knees.” England quoted one of the few snippets of the conversation from America’s contribution to the conversation. He was certain that he was the only one who had heard it as he was standing directly on the other side of the door, having headed towards the hall when he had first heard Vicente’s gloating. 

***

“That’s not what I...” America bit his tongue, when his voice cracked. His head felt fuzzy, whether it was because of some of the drink he’d had or the punch he’d taken, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he didn’t want to do this, not like this. “I guess we’re at an impasse, then, and not just on the battlefields.” 

His heart sank. The way England was looking at him now, it was too much like the peace treaty at the end of the revolution. At least then, England’s mask had slipped and America knew he still cared. Now his fingers were still firm on his wrist and jaw, but it was hardly the touch he wanted. He looked away. 

“I’m going home. My diplomats will work out the peace.” He reached up to take the hand England had on his face and remove it. He felt sick. Next, he pulled his arm from England’s grip and shrugged past him. “Tell the others I wasn’t feeling well. My economy isn’t that great right now, not that I need to tell you.”

***

England stared down the hall where America had been standing just seconds before. “The next ship does not leave dock until the ‘morrow and Dunkirk is far,” he announced. “And Belgium has turned in for the night... you will need to make your own excuses to her in the morning.” He swallowed, carefully gathering himself back up, though not turning around . “America.” he called, only continuing when the footsteps paused. “You may hate me... but let us keep the civility going... it makes it easier on everyone.”

“I’ve never hated you,” he said, not looking at him, “You’ve always been too busy to notice.”

“Well...you have a funny way of showing a lack of hatred.”

America turned back now, walking towards England and standing close. His hands hung at his sides. “You heard him. Why do you think he would say such things to me?”

England hadn’t turned since America had brushed past him and now America was standing at his back. It felt odd. Normally such a situation would put England on the defense, careful of a blade finding its way into his back or fingers around his throat, but this time England felt physically safe. Despite being at war, England was more than well aware of the fact that America would not harm him, physically at least. England shook his head. “How am I supposed to know what was running through Vicente’s mind? Especially when it as addled by spirits? From what I heard... there was nothing there that could have upset you.”

America sighed. “Maybe you should ask those magic fairies to take the wool out of your eyes. Good night, England.” He walked away then, going back to the rooms that he’d been offered for the night.

England turned to watch America walk away. He had been doing that alot lately it seemed. Shaking his head he rubbed his hands over his face. The evening had been going so well, too. Pushing his shoulders back and straightening up England headed back towards the gathering room. Everything needed to seem as if it had gone smoothly, despite any emotional upheaval it had all caused him. 

He needed another drink. Prussia could always be counted on. England had drained half the glass when he noticed the other was looking at him strangely. “What?”

“You’re shit at this.”

“I hardly think you have any right to comment on my drinking.”

Prussia sighed. “Not that, the awesome me commends you for how much alcohol you can put away. It’s the way you talk to America.”

England frowned. “That’s not your concern.”

“I care about the kid, that makes it my concern. Now you--” England thrust a finger at Prussia’s face. He stared back, not intimidated in the slightest.

“How I choose to manage America is my affair.”

“You treat him like he doesn’t have any thoughts in his own head.”

“Oh, I’m very aware of the thoughts he gets in his head. In fact, I’m very familiar with the thoughts _you_ put into his head in regards to his military. Whatever you are trying to say, spit it out. I’m not in the mood tonight.”

Prussia smirked. “I’m just saying you should make up with the kid. You can put him in a box all you want, but from what I know of him, he won’t stay there for long. I’m just saying give him a chance. When he finds his voice he isn’t going to shut up.”

England peered at him over the top of the beer glass as he finished it off. “I don’t know what you think is going on, but--” 

“Arthur. Gilbert,” said Austria, stepping up to them. Prussia’s grin widened and England decided to retreat before getting caught in that particular quarrel. Turning around, he headed towards one of the other exits to the drawing room. Thankfully, no one else said a word.

Barring his door when he got to his guest room, England fell into his bed, cheek pressing into the forgiving pillow easily. The drapes had been drawn and the only light in the room was from the fireplace that was on its way out as well. Blinking slowly he watched as the embers protested feebly, few flames flickering in protest. The night had turned for the worst so quickly!  

At supper things had been a little tense and for a brief moment, but then it had calmed. Unfortunately, it had been the calm before a hurricane. What had that fight between America and Portugal been about? What on earth had prompted it? England couldn’t even get a straight answer out of the two.  Portugal _had_ always been a jealous lover, but what did he have to be jealous of America for? Because the other was helping him out while he was drinking?  

A quiet knock sounded through the room, interrupting England’s poundering. Was it America? Pushing off the bed England walked to the door and unlocking it. A sliver of hope ran through him as he saw blond hair, but then he realized it was not the right shade at all. “Oh, Good evening, Ludwig.” He was surprised when disappointment was the only emotion he felt, quickly followed by confusion. “Is there something that I can do for you?”

“You asked me to come by your room?” Ludwig said quietly, and England felt a rush of embarrassment. He had indeed asked the other just that morning to come to his bed that night. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the youngest German. However, England felt nothing tonight, no interest in following through. Expression turning apologetic, England smiled softly at him. 

“I am sorry. I know it was I who made the offer, but I am feeling under the weather. The evening has been rather taxing.”

“ _Ja_ , I understand.” Ludwig nodded, not wasting a single syllable. That was certainly Ludwig, the younger man always rigid and uniform. “I will see you in the morning then.” Ludwig nodded his head at him before departing. 

England stepped back in the room, closing and locking the door once more. Muscle memory had his clothes off and over the back of an arm chair in no time at all and without a thought. Pulling the blankets back on his bed, England shimmied beneath their weight with a sigh of satisfaction. The fact that he was tired hadn’t been a lie at all. Falling back into the pillows England curled up beneath the blankets with a yawn, and in no time at all he was asleep. 

“Good morning, Master Kirkland!” A cheery voice jolted England awake as drapery was thrown back and the fire stoked. England stared at the ceiling. Mornings were taxing things indeed, and in this morning a pit of unease rolled in his stomach. His dreams had been full of naked skin, blond hair, and blue eyes. Yet it wasn’t the shade of blue that he had turned away last night at his door, it was blue eyes of the ocean. Blue eyes that belonged to someone who smiled far too much.

“Shit.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a doozy! Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying our story please leave a comment or a kudo! 
> 
> You should all be proud of shuriken7 since she didn't consciously make any Star-spangled banner jokes (if you missed Francis Scott Key in the chapter... he was there!) xD
> 
> Next installment: We aren't quite done with the War of 1812, one last battle to go (and the subject of a chart topping song in 1959). And England realizes America isn't so little anymore.


	7. A Crack in the Foundation

January 8, 1815  
Battle of New Orleans

Coming home to the knowledge that the British had set up a garrison outside of New Orleans after the British Navy had won a naval engagement hadn’t helped his mixed up feelings that had surfaced regarding a certain Englishman in Belgium. America had gotten to the frontier as fast as he could, sneaking down back roads and making use of a privateer that was willing to sneak past the British position. 

America leaned against the wall. He was tired, no one had slept a wink. They’d been fighting for days, back and forth. Not to mention, the Louisiana weather had made everything wet. It was impossible to feel dry between the fog and rain. The Mississippi and its swamps offered avenues for watercraft. That was, however, if the British could even get them past the mouth. Captain Lafitte had seen to that. The irony of a French pirate’s help wasn’t lost on America. The man had cannons to spare and the British commander was dragging his heels. Last America had heard, the British had attempted to build a canal through the mud, only to find it collapsed and needing to carry boats overland. The British line would push forward and America’s lines would push them back. 

The expectation of something about to happen hung in the air. General Jackson was sprawled out on the couch, his staff sleeping on the floor or in chairs around the room. They all slept with their swords and side arms. When would it all be over? 

An aide stepped into the room, immediately going to rouse the general. Jackson leapt to his feet as if he’d not just been sleeping. The aide spoke, “Sir, Commodore Patterson is concerned the British will try to flank us by moving up the west bank of the river.”

“Commodore Patterson is mistaken. The main attack will be on this side, and I have no men to spare. He must maintain his position at all hazards.” The aide nodded and hurried away. Jackson caught America’s eye. “Help me get them up.” 

Rising to his feet, America went around the room, shaking shoulders and gathering the rough frontiersmen from Tennessee around the room. 

“Gentleman, we have slept enough. Rise. The enemy will be upon us in a few minutes.” With a flourish, Old Hickory left the room to speak to his troops. Tennessee had only been a state for nine years, but America could feel the state pride emanating from the room. The other states were that way too, but the way they’d stood together in the face of all of the chaos, of Mr. Madison’s war... America couldn’t help but feel proud. It was still dark when he went out to join the Kentucky line. 

He had four thousand men behind earthworks with cannons on the Rodriguez Canal. America hoped it would be enough. There were three red coats to every one of his own. He took a deep breath, the odds could be worse.

They started up with the fife, drum, and bagpipes. Each note, every beat an order of some kind. Some of them he could still recognize, after all, they hadn’t changed over the years. America leaned up, peering over the mud earthworks. The British were somewhere out there, but the fog that was drifting off the river obscured everything and muffled sound. Everyone listened, waited for the order to raise up and fire. Dawn had come on, although it was not quite light.

A flash overhead. A signal. The tone of the instruments pounding orders changed. They were going to come any minute. America’s heart began to pound to the beat of the drums. The cannons were firing on the right flank. The British first, then his own. Minutes passed and nothing else changed. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Any moment now.

The order to fire was shouted over the noise and America leaned up and over ready to fire. His eyes widened. 

The fog had lifted. 

The entire plain was exposed, the pride of the British army, those men England had sent over after defeating Napoleon were sitting ducks. The Tennessee and Kentucky rifleman cheered. Did they think that pomp and circumstance was going to scare them off? Make them run? No, it wasn’t. America could feel it in his bones. The British commander who’d ordered this attack may not have thought much of them, but the people of the frontier were going to show him the error of his ways.

The British advanced and America waited for the order. Even though he knew it wasn’t possible, England was back in Europe, he felt like he saw him out there. Closer and closer. Rifles were poised. 300 yards. 200 yards. “Fire!” The pop of rifles and the explosion of cannons showed man after man falling until he couldn’t see them anymore for the smoke. The fire was constant, unending. Fire, step back, the man in front fired, then traded places. Over and over and over again.

He could see them, the British line hesitating. Drums changed, whistles blasting, sending another regiment to back them up. Volley after volley poured into them until they broke. America squinted through the smoke, but he couldn’t quite see what was happening. 

Cannons fired from the other side of the Mississippi and he could hear Jackson shouting something about the lines. There was an attack across the river. America turned, but he couldn’t see through the smoke. He needed to focus on what was right in front of him. 

Boom. Crack. 

A drumbeat that he recognized. Retreat. A British retreat. The sun had barely shifted in the sky. It couldn’t be more than a half an hour since the attack began. A cheer rose up amongst the men, jeering at the British who turned their backs, the swath of red barely visible in the clouds of smoke.

When it began to clear, America’s throat closed up. In front of the earthworks were more men than he could guess. At least a thousand, maybe more. Dead and dying. Their red coats making it look like a sea of blood in the field in front of him. 

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” one of the Kentucky militiamen whispered. America didn’t move. He’d seen moments like it before when the British lines refused to fall back. The reminder unsettled him. 

I never want to see this again.

***

It couldn’t have been broken, otherwise, it would hurt a lot more than it did. With one hand clutching his leg, England covered his head with the other. Everything had collapsed, gone to hell within seconds, and now his troops were fleeing in a manner that would make the French proud. He wasn’t sure who he should be the angriest with, which one of his officers deserved a quick kick in the arse.

Pulling himself across the ground he swore loudly as pain shot up his leg. Definitely not broken, but he had undoubtedly torn something. He blinked furiously as black dots swam over his vision, it hurt like the devil, couldn’t even put weight on the blasted thing. Swallowing thickly he fought against the bile rising in his throat, the whole event had been an embarrassing, deadly disaster. Between the swamp, the failure of the fog and then Lambert’s terrible timing he wasn’t sure how much liquor he would need to forget this. 

The letter announcing the end of the war sagged in his pocket. Anger at himself welled up in his chest. What had he thought he was going to be able to do? Find America and convince him that the war was truly over as he was encamped behind his earthen walls thinking he was coming to destroy New Orleans? He’d pre-empted the official order. Another wave of pain passed through him. Placing his cheek on the ground England allowed his eyes to close as his vision continued to swim. Just for a moment, he promised himself. 

***

They’d won! General Jackson had stormed off to inspire some discipline in the Kentucky line where it had broken across the river. He could still see the British forces over there, although apparently the cannons had been successfully put out of service. America went out with the medics, trying to ascertain the extent of the British dead and wounded. Something tugged at the back of his mind that he needed to be on that field.

It was hard to walk across the battlefield and not step on someone. He made his way carefully, keeping an eye out for someone who wanted to take a stab at an American or not wanting to be captured. A set of silver epaulets caught his eye and recognition washed over him with horrified certainty. He wasn’t supposed to be here! America hurried through the carnage to the soldier lying face down in the mud. Heart in his throat he took him by the shoulder to roll him over, hoping he was wrong. 

He wasn’t. England was limp, and he couldn’t tell on the red fabric if he’d been wounded. The rest of him was covered with mud and blood. His soldiers’ or his own?

“England! Arthur!” He shook him gently, but England didn’t respond. His pulse was still strong under America’s fingers when he found it at his neck, tugging aside the once white cloth tied at his throat. “I’ll get you out of here,” he promised.

***

He hadn’t even truly recovered from the American rebellion when the Napoleonic Wars hit, and then the problem in North America. He had hardly had a chance to breathe. That had to be the only reason a simple leg wound had hurt him so badly. With a groan he tried to move his leg, assess the damage, his eyes still closed. That was when he realized something was off. No longer was his face pressed against dirt, instead, he was lying on his back, and on a much more forgiving surface. His skin no longer taught with dried mud. He felt rather clean and his leg was no longer throbbing with such intensity. Yet, he was still so tired. With effort, England opened his eyes. He was certainly no longer on the battlefield. Looking around in a panic England realized that he was in a room. Sparsely decorated, but rather comfortable. It seemed to contain the bed, which was the softer surface, a small table, and a few chairs. Warm patches of sunlight filtered through curtained windows that England now peered at, just above the bed. It was late morning. “How long?” England croaked out loud, as if the room would answer his question.

***

America sat by the window, his feet up on the small box seat. It was still raining, the water pouring down the panes and just showing a little bit of the color of the city of New Orleans. Spanish, French, English, and African languages mixed in the streets below as people went about their business. Most were sheltered, but a few still moved around. When he heard England’s voice he shifted, looking. He’d been talking in his sleep more than once, his body weakened from a blow that would have killed a human. The bruises showed that he’d been trod upon, no doubt during the retreat.

He waited, seeing if it was more mutterings or an actual question. “England?”

***

England wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but apparently, a reply wasn’t one of them, A sense of panic zipped through his muscles and his reached for a sword that wasn't there. His eyes landed on America, widening in horror. Pieces of the battle slogged through his mind, the last thing he remembered was lying on the dirt of the battlefield. He’d been taken captive! Lurching in the opposite direction he planned to make a beeline for the door. Yet the searing pain that rocketed up his thigh caught him off guard. With a cry of anguish, he crumpled back to the bed, mind racing. 

It took a second for him to get to the bed, grasping England by the arm and hoisting him back up from where he’d partially fallen. “Woah, England, don’t make it worse. It’s okay, I’m taking care of you.”

“Unhand me!” England snapped, yanking his arm from America’s grasp. He had to get out of here! He took note of a pitcher on the bedside table. A knock to the head with a heavy porcelain like that would stun even a nation for a moment. Scrabbling away from the other he bit back another cry of pain as he lunged for the pitcher, long fingers grasping the handle weakly. 

America leaned over the bed to grab him around the middle, pulling him close to his chest and grabbing his wrists. America’s arms shook and he seemed to have a bit of trouble. His natural strength tempered by prolonged war and economic collapse, fighting with his own imperial strength. “You’re in New Orleans, I brought you here after you collapsed on the battlefield. You were injured and you’ve been sleeping for a few days,” said America.

All he had to do was swing his head back, it would slam into America's nose and he would without a doubt drop him. For a brief moment, he considered it, but there was also the likely chance that even if he managed, the other would catch him at the door. Sagging against America, England relented, gasping for breath. Everything hurt, he was sore. Nothing compared to sufferings he had endured in the past. But he was so tired. The way America phrased it, it didn’t sound like he was a captive, but it would be stupid to not expect the worst. By the heavens, America was warm. England felt his cheeks darken at the thought. He must still be with fever!

Slowly, America loosened his grip and settled England against the pillows. Leaning over the side of the bed he gathered up the blankets that had been knocked aside in the struggle. “You’ve been sick and mostly unconscious. I’m glad you’re awake.”

“What are you going to do with me?” England barked the question before he could even think. It was instinctual really, the knowledge necessary for survival. He eyed the blue-eyed nation carefully. America was being too nice. They hadn’t exactly left on good terms in Belgium.

“If I was going to do anything to you I would have done it already,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and leaning back on his hands. He looked at him. “Like I said, I brought you here after the battle. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing, but it felt like the right thing to do.”

England eyed him carefully, not exactly sure whether he could trust him. They weren't exactly allies. At the thought, his chest throbbed. Hand flying to his sternum he rubbed it subconsciously. The scar hurt every once in awhile. England supposed it would bother him for a couple more years since the same thing had happened after his civil war. “So I am free to go then?”

Hesitating, America bit his lip. Leaning his head back he looked at the ceiling. His face turned thoughtful for a moment, then settled on a decision. “Yes. If you can walk out the door, you’re free to go. You’re not my prisoner.”

Lips pursed, England contemplated his options. Of all things, he would prefer to strut right out the door and go home. He still wasn’t sure why America was still here if he really had been unconscious for multiple days. He shifted, his leg throbbing again. Leaving wasn’t an option. At least under his own strength. Swallowing, England glanced around the room again. At least he knew where all of his escape routes were. Looking back at America he frowned, crossing his arms. There really was nothing to say to the younger. The other had made it clear in Belgium that they did not know one another and when America had left, it made it abundantly clear that they were nothing but nations who traded and went to war. Was there anything really to say?

America sighed. “I suppose a ‘thank you’ is expecting too much.” He pushed himself up off the bed. “I’ll see if I can get anything for you to eat. I dismissed the household, I didn’t want them to question how you weren’t dead from your wounds. People can be superstitious down here. You should try not to move.”

He strode across the room and reached for the doorknob. 

Gritting his teeth England debated for just a moment before blurting, “Thank you.” He sniffed, looking away. It was the least a gentleman could do. And maybe he could sneak out of the window while America was in the kitchen!

***

America shook his head as he walked down the hallway. When England had been unconscious and vulnerable, everything had been fine. America had taken care of him, barely gotten any sleep over the last few days when England would thrash from nightmares. Last night, the fever had been so hot that he’d stayed up all night cooling his brow. His fingers still felt stiff from the cold water.

There wasn’t much to find in the kitchens. Without a cook, nothing was simmering and the fire had gone cold. The cupboard had a loaf of bread he’d sent someone to buy a few days ago, along with some cold ham and cheese. Both would be better for someone just waking up from an injury, but it was all he had at the moment. Loading them onto a tray he headed back up the stairs.

***

The minute the door had clicked shut, England looked towards the window. Wincing, he pulled himself across the bed, shoving off the blankets while being careful not to bend his injured leg. Gripping the bedpost England pushed off the bed, putting all weight on his good foot. He certainly looked ridiculous. Using the wall as support England inched his way towards the window, practically gripping the window ledge when he got there. Rain splattered against the panes, but he couldn’t worry about that. Gripping the window, England pushed up with a grunt. Two things happened at once. First, a feeling of success rushed through him when the window screeched, but opened nonetheless. Second, dread had replaced success as pain lanced through his side. In his excitement, he had put his bad foot down, and it was in no shape whatsoever to hold his weight. 

He wasn’t sure what was louder, his cursing, the sound of the pitcher shattering as he fell, or hitting the floor. England was only aware of the fact that everything hurt much worse, he was sopping wet and if the stinging in his arm meant anything then he had cut his arm on broken porcelain. Shit. Dropping his head to the floorboards he groaned in annoyance. That could not have gone any worse. “I didn’t even make it out the blasted window,” he croaked.

***

Hearing the crash, America hurried up the stairs and back into the room. All he could see at first was the empty bed and the open window. He set the tray on the end of the bed and walked over, hoping he wouldn’t find England sprawled in the street below. As soon as he rounded the bed, he saw him. “What are you doing!? I told you that you shouldn’t move.” Kneeling down, he hooked his arms beneath England’s body. Ignoring England’s sounds of protest, he picked him up off the floor, cradling him against his chest as he carried him the few steps to the bed.

“Don’t you drop me!” England barked, hooking his arms around the younger's neck. Clutching him tightly England held his breath.

America blushed. “I’m not going to drop you.” He bent over the bed and settled England onto it, reluctantly releasing him. Trying to cover up the flush on his face, he turned away to reach for the tray. 

“I wouldn’t put it past today” he glared at the window. He glanced at the tray. “You didn’t find tea perhaps?”

America wrinkled his nose. “Haven’t touched the stuff in years. I don’t have any in the house.”

England sighed. “Booze would probably be the better solution. Numb my leg a bit at least,” he mumbled, slumping against the pillows in defeat. The attempted escape out the window probably did not help his precarious health. Shifting uncomfortably he looked at America. “That battle was pointless.”

“I won a bottle of moonshine from one of the soldiers from Tennessee on a round of dice. That might be a little rougher than you can handle right now though,” America replied, “And you only say it was pointless because you lost so completely.”

England stared at America as if he had suddenly grown two heads. “Excuse me!” England shouted, swearing as he sat up too fast. Clutching at his leg he glared at the blonde. “First! Don’t you assume how I can hold my liquor! Second! That has nothing to do with it! The battle had no need to be fought! This stupid war has been done and over with for a fucking month!”

America stared at him. “Look I understand you’re upset by your current state, but that lie is absolutely absurd! I would have been told if the war was over. Your men wouldn’t have been attacking New Orleans!” 

He scoffed, stepping away from the bed and grabbing the back of a chair near the window. Pulling it over near the bed he sat down, crossing his arms.

“Why were you there if the war was done?”

England scowled. “Because the blasted orders came late! You really think that if I had a chance to stop it then that blasted fool Lambert would have still be on the field! The treaty was signed on the twenty-fourth of December! You know as well as I do that, that is one of the worst times for a ship to be at sea! The letter was delayed.” Leaning over he grasped America’s legs just above the knee so he could look him straight in the eye. Leaning in he captured the younger’s attention completely. “Have I, Arthur, ever knowingly told you, Alfred, a falsehood?”

America searched his face. England was and had been many things. Unforthcoming, unforgiving, willfully stubborn... but never an outright liar. He’d been contradictory with his behavior at times, one thing coming out of his mouth and then his body doing something completely different. Not intentionally dishonest and not in the way he meant it now. 

“No, and I hope you aren’t starting now.” He reached up and put the back of his fingers on England’s cheek. He was feeling warm again and there was perspiration on his skin. “You’re still really pale. Here, eat something.” He had to lean closer to reach the tray, but he managed to grasp it with the tips of his fingers and draw the meager offering forward.

With his smaller hand, England’s fingers grasped America's on his cheek, staring at him. “We are no longer at war,” he said, firmly, searching the other’s face.

America looked at him, not sure if he entirely trusted his word. There was so much water under the bridge, so much that it swallowed it completely sometimes and chipped away at board after board. Perhaps the flood could shift, and they could rebuild. A little bit of hope flickered in his chest. “I’m glad,” he said.

 

Relief crossed England’s face and he let his hand drop from America’s. Leaning back against the pillow, he turned his attentions to the plate that America had placed on his lap. His stomach growled loudly. Turning red with embarrassment he cleared his throat and tore a piece off of the bread, popping it into his mouth. With a groan of satisfaction, he tore identical pieces from the ham and cheese block.

“It’s not much, but, uh, I didn’t really have a chance to notify the staff I was coming and then I just didn’t think they should be here should something go wrong.” America’s stomach rumbled, and he balled his hands in his lap. England hadn’t eaten in too long, he should let him have it. He would need to go down to the inn down the street at some point, maybe he could get them to prepare something more substantial.

“I won't be able to eat the whole thing,” England commented lightly. “Stomach’s too small for that. So, I guess you’ll have to help me finish it before it goes bad.” He nudged the plate towards America. “Though later if we could somehow secure a cup of tea, I'd have to thank you again.”

***

A few days later...

America knew it couldn’t last. But England had made no mention of leaving, even though he was moving more easily now and the dark spots beneath his eyes were beginning to fade. He felt like he had when he would escape England’s lessons to play in the field or read his own books in the woodshed. Only England was here with him and seemed just as satisfied to hide in the little bubble of domesticity they’d created during his convalescence. 

America came up the stairs rubbing warmth back into his hands. He’d been chopping wood for the last hour or so, getting enough for the next few days. The cold, dismal weather had continued and showed no sign of letting up. He found England sitting on the bed, ankles crossed, a book in hand. “I’ve got enough wood for the fire tonight. It shouldn’t get so cold.” 

Peering up from the book in his lap he watched as America sat down on the chair by the bed. “Don’t you have a pair of gloves? If not I could have sewn you something.” he gestured at his leg with a wrinkle of disgust in his nose. “It’s not like I can do much anyways.”

America paused blowing on his hands. “I’ve never been down here in the winter. It’s cold enough to bite, but not really freeze. Not like up north. I can try to see if I can find something lying around for cloth though.” 

He pulled off his boots downstairs since they’d grown damp and now he stretched out his legs, stocking feet resting on the bed as he leaned back in the chair. He yawned.

***

For a brief moment, England debated on telling the boy to remove his dirty socks before placing them on the bed but decided against it. “Any other plans for the evening, Alfred?” By the heavens, England was bored of sitting. He had no love for chopping wood, but earlier when America had announced his intention to do it, England couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. He was becoming restless. And he was sure his officers were panicking. Taking news back to the King that they had somehow managed to lose their personified nation was not something he wished on anyone, even on Lambert at the moment. 

“I could try and see if Mrs. Laforce is making anything special at the tavern. Bring something back for you. Or I could just stay here...” He tilted his head, giving England the opportunity to fill in his own ideas. 

“I wouldn’t say no to supper. I am feeling peckish.” He glanced at his own shoes by the door. “However, I would like to come with if possible.”

“I think you could manage, it’s not far.” America put his feet to the floor and stood. “Just don’t tell anyone you were with the invaders obviously. We’d both get chased out of town at gunpoint.”

“You can’t honestly think me that daft.” England frowned, tossing off the blankets. Sliding his feet off the bed he flinched as his leg twinged. It was nothing compared to his first day waking up. It was more uncomfortable and annoying than painful. However, he was still concerned whether or not it would hold his weight and for how long. Glancing at the door he debated whether or not it was worth the possible embarrassment. “I’ll meet you downstairs, then.” 

America brought the clothes from the chair over to where England stood, holding onto the footboard. “Call me if you need help. You taking a tumble down the stairs is going to hurt more than any hurt to that oversized pride of yours.” He walked out into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Scowling at the closed door he grabbed his clothes angrily and began to change. Just because he was a temporary invalid did not mean the other should speak to him in such a manner. Buttoning up his shirt and jacket, England found he had a bit more trouble with the trousers. It was uncomfortable and the muscles in his hip were sore with bruises and stiff with lack of use. Yet, getting dressed was the easy part. Glancing towards his boots England shook his head to calm his thoughts. 

Grabbing the footboard he hoisted himself up carefully. His leg was gonna hurt something dreadful after coming back. Shuffling along England felt a sliver of relief. “So far so good” he muttered. 

Scooting to the wall he carefully maneuvered his boots so there was little pressure but on the injured leg as he bent down to fully pull them on. A grin crawled up his face “Success!” Clasping the doorknob he limped out of the room, head held high. His stomach dropped as he exited the landing. There were so many stairs.

America appeared at the bottom of the stairs and sighed. He’d put an old-fashioned slouch cap on his head to ward off the cold and England had the uncomfortable sensation of looking at a broader shouldered version of America in a mix of colonial and modern fashions. He stepped up beside him. “You can hang onto me. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” He winked and grinned at him.

England gaped at America and looked at the stairs. He hadn’t been considering throwing himself down them originally, but now it appeared as a viable option. Staring at them stubbornly he thrust his arm out towards America. “You tell a single soul” he warned.

“I’ll pay the price, I get it.” He offered England an arm. “Don’t worry even in all the bad days you’ve put me through, I’ve never wanted to push you down a flight of stairs.”

“Don't even start!” England grouched, grasping the stair railing with his free hand. Moving down the stairs with a slow lurching gait, he flinched as his leg twinged. England couldn't discern whether or not this was a brilliant idea. He could feel America’s patience eroding next to him. Clearing his throat, America caught England around the waist and scooped him up. Getting them down the stairs in only a few seconds. 

“What the hell!” England squawked, fingers clutched wildly at America's jacket. When America put him back on his feet he smacked America's arm. “What was that for!”

“I figured we wanted to eat sometime this week. I think there’s a walking cane around here somewhere.” He left England leaning at the side table and began rooting around in a small cupboard in the hallway. He came up with the item, brushing dust off his shirtsleeves. England took it in a huff and after bundling into coats they headed slowly down the street. It was still dreary so not many residents were making their way through the streets. Voices could be heard with several accents and words in several languages.

“I wasn't that slow” England protested. Leaning heavily on the younger man England limped alongside him, determined to keep pace. “There are many different people here. London is diverse, but I think New Orleans might be even more so, Alfred.”

“Well, it’s one of my biggest ports now. It was settled by France, then you controlled it briefly, then Spain, then France again. And now it’s mine. I like the Mississippi.” He pointed England towards the little tavern and soon they were out of the drizzle and finding a table in the busy place. Shrugging out of overcoats they took a seat near the fire.

A dark-skinned woman walked over and asked America what they wanted. He stumbled over the answer in Creole which made her laugh, but she sauntered off to come back with a bounty from the kitchens and a pitcher of cider.

England gave but a brief acknowledgment to the woman before looking around the tavern. People watching had always been one of his favorite past times. Even as a young nation who had been unestablished he watched his people, the tribes roam through his lands growing and learning. Then to the Nordics trying to steal his land. He remembered lying beneath bush and high in the branches of trees, shushing fairies as he watched their camps. Not merely for means of war, but rather just to watch them. That habit still persisted today. 

Absentmindedly, he reached for the tankard of cider, taking a drink as he continued to watch people's interactions. A man, dressed rather simply flirted in an almost embarrassing manner with one of the barmaids, who in turn seemed to rather appreciate the man's attentions. A smile crept onto his mouth, which he hid behind his drink. It seemed that even while a war had just been raged on this very soil, devotion could prevail. A feeling of envy slithered through England's chest which he squashed quickly. Some things for humans were not for nations it seemed. No matter how much one yearned for it, fate had other things in mind.

America was halfway through the second bowl of stew when he looked up at England watching the crowd. England turned his head, catching America’s stare and raised an eyebrow. America swallowed, then said, “I just realized... we’ve never just sat together and had a drink.”

England hesitated, turning away and lowering his drink. “No, I guess not... you were not old enough, and we have practically been at odds since…” He took a deep breath as a wave of nausea punched him in the gut. “Well, an opportune time has yet to present itself until now it seems. Things happen. Far out of our control as I have come to learn.” He cast a glance back at America “There is no telling what the future may bring.” He cast a wary eye at the stew in front of him. He wasn’t entirely sure that it would be the smartest thing to eat at the moment. He nudged his bowl over to America. “Take this. I have no appetite.”

***

“I guess that’s true. Are you sure you aren’t hungry?” England shook his head and America finished it off. He’d been hungrier than he’d ever been lately. It could be the war or the expanding border, but it was always there, gnawing at him. He watched England, noticing he was watching the humans go about their business. It was busy, full and warm inside the tavern. He could almost forget that, although the peace was signed, their militaries were still struggling somewhere along the coast of the Mississippi Territory. Mobile, he’d thought he’d heard. England still looked pale and he didn’t want to bring it up anyhow. 

Alone, together, felt good. Hidden away, the rest of the world couldn’t get in between them. America frowned, remembering the scene in Brussels. No point in bringing that up, he thought. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” he said.

“They are worth much more than that I assure you.” England’s mouth quirked. Shaking his head he set his drink down. “They have no real direction this evening. Simply hopping from topic to topic. There's a lot going on in the world” England was avoiding the question. His eyes turned from a couple across the way. Propping his arms on the table he leaned into America’s space. “How about you Alfred?”

“I, uh...” In truth, he’d just been thinking far too much about England’s neck and how it showed over his neckcloth when he tilted his head. Would England still smell the same if he could hold him close? What would he do if he held him close when they walked back in the door to the small house? “I... well, I was thinking about some of the petitions for statehood. And some explorations I’d like to make in the summer, the fur trappers bring back amazing stories.”

England grinned. “I see you are imperialistic to an extent as well.” He chuckled. “Exploring new lands is a thrill that one can never truly outgrow and it never becomes tedious. I can attest to that. Perhaps, once you are back in civilization you shall write me a letter. Inform your... trade partners of discoveries made... and new trade agreements that could be embellished.” he said slowly, brow furrowed.

America looked at him for a moment, surprise crossing his face. He looked away, a small smile on his face. “You’re asking me to write to you?”

“It would make sense wouldn’t it.” England said quickly “New discoveries you make could lead to better trade options for me. More variety.” he swallowed, a flush creeping over his cheeks. 

“Trade, right. Sure, Arthur, I’ll write to you.” America smiled at him, leaning back in his seat. “You should write to me. It can be about whatever you want.”

England scowled. “That is rather presumptuous of you.”

“It’s not very equitable if I tell you all about my adventures and I don’t get to hear about yours. I’ve got some big ideas, can’t let you steal them or anything.” He gave England a teasing smile.

England rolled his eyes. “As if I need to rob you of ideas. I have had far more adventures. You have a long time before you catch up to me.” He crossed his arms with a haughty expression.

America tilted his head, grinning, his expression playful. “What do you want to bet that I’ll catch up with you in the next fifty years?”

“Over my dead body.” England's eyed narrowed. The joke appeared to have played itself out.

America let out of a puff of air. He leaned on his elbows on the table, close to England. From the position of their table, no one could see him reach out and take hold of England’s right sleeve. 

“No way.” He moved his fingers just slightly and he could feel the thinness of England’s arm beneath the fabric. Always thin, but currently he felt weakened. It had frightened him during England’s bouts of unconsciousness. He squeezed gently, pulling back his arm and letting his skin brush against the back of England’s hand. It was warm, that was a good sign. “It won’t mean anything to me if you aren’t there.”

“I know,” England said, voice flat. “You said that in the past. You told me that you would show me wrong. I remember that.” 

“And I meant it,” America said, a funny feeling grew in his stomach that he didn’t want to name. His hands were getting shaky again, his economy still distressed. Maybe that was why things had gotten so serious. Forcing a smile on his face, he laughed. “And I have to be at least a little grateful to you. If it weren’t for you I’d be speaking French.” 

“Yes, you could have suffered a worse fate than you claim you have thus far.” England rolled his eyes. “At least Matthew speaks good English to make up for all the French.” 

America was tempted to kick him under the table but remembered England’s injury. “We talk the same way!” He sighed, leaning back slightly. England was giving him that look, the one where he was going to be a pain in the ass. “If you’re going to compare me to Matt, I need something stronger than cider.” He waved for the barmaid, and despite her teasing him for looking so young, she eventually came back with some bourbon. 

England arched a brow. “Oh, are you jealous of Matthew for some reason?”

America snorted. “Hardly.” He threw back some of the bourbons, enjoying the burn of the alcohol on his throat. The truth of the matter was he didn’t want to think about Canada at all. The good humor dropped off his face. “Look, I don’t want to talk about him. I... can’t talk about that right now. And before you tell me off for invading him. He gave as good as he got, I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

***

Subconsciously England's hand touched the most recent, prevalent scar on his own chest. Of course, he had received bumps and bruises from the war with Napoleon and then this second war with America. His largest scar, however, was that of his own civil war. It ran straight down the middle of his chest and all the way down to his hips as if he had taken a blade down his front. His most recent, like the marks of shattered lighting across the back of his left shoulder, had appeared with America’s revolt. 

England stared at the boy, not willing to ask as fingers moved to touch his left shoulder. He had not seen the younger out of proper dress since he was very young. Did he have a scar from his revolution? Was there a scar from when he, England, had burned the American capital? Sufficient blows always seemed to leave some kind of scar on a nation's physical body. “If you wish.” He nodded, turning to his drink. Frowning when he found it empty. Had he really downed it without thinking?

America rubbed absentmindedly at a spot over his heart, pouring himself a little more whiskey and then looked up at England. He picked up the bottle. “You look like you could use some of this, too.”

“I will never turn down spirits.” He took the bottle from America and lifted it to his lips taking a drink straight from the bottle. Noticing America’s flabbergasted look he waved him off. The banter continued between them with a lack of sense as England continued to take sips from the bottle. There was one thing that England was certain of. His hip didn’t hurt anymore, however, he had been certain that he was sitting up straight. Yet, now he found himself slumped against America, his cheek smushed against the young blond's shoulder. Between the liquor and the fire burning in the hearth, England found that he was quite warm and surprisingly comfortable. “Hey, Alfred... I’m tired,” he murmured, rubbing his cheek against the thick fabric of his shirt with a yawn.

***

America was feeling a little hazy himself, snatching the bottle back a few times from England’s grip. When England had leaned over, he hadn’t wanted to move an inch. He felt good there, right next to him. “We should get going back to the house, then.” Realizing almost immediately that England was not going to be steady on his feet, he took England’s arm and wrapped it around his neck. One hand gripping England’s wrist and the other arm hooked around his waist they stumbled out in the gray drizzle that had begun while they’d been inside. They weren’t the only group stumbling around in the half darkness. Lights flickered in windows as they made their way down the street and back into the house. 

“I can walk!” England protested halfheartedly as he leaned heavily against America. He blinked a couple times in surprise as suddenly he recognized the stairs they were trudging up. “Oh... we are home?”

“Yeah, we’re here.” America’s cheeks warmed at the fact that England had called the little house ‘home.’ He helped him to a seat on the edge of the bed and stepped over to add more wood to the banked fire. The fireplace came alive again casting warmth through the room. He stepped back toward England but lost his balance from the liquor. He caught himself on a post near the footboard, leaning heavily against it for a moment, laughing. England had leaned backward, stretching across the bed. The flush on his neck grew, and not just from the bourbon that was coursing through his veins. It’s England... he doesn’t think of you like that... His brain and his body disagreed about whether that mattered.

England was still laughing at his stumble. “Can't hold your liquor, Alfred?” He chuckled, rolling onto his side he began to tug his shirt over his head. “Help a guy out here, can't sleep in my day clothes can I?” He reached around the bed blindly for the other.

“What am I, your valet?” he replied, mimicking England’s accent on the final word. Even before the sentence was fully out of his mouth, his fingers were on the buttons of England’s waistcoat. He leaned over him to reach for the long nightshirt that had been left on the pillows earlier.  
“Nah, valet is brunette,” England countered, bleary-eyed he looks over at the book on the bedside table before staring hard at America. Reaching up he cupped America's cheeks as he pulled the other closer with a crooked smile. “You know what we should do?”

Butterflies coursing through America’s veins. It’s the liquor talking. It’s the liquor talking. He repeated it over and over in his mind. He licked his lips. “What?”

England grinned, pulling the other close enough so that their noses touched, green eyes fluttering shut. One hand left America’s cheek to card through his hair as he took a deep breath. “We,” he exhaled, “should read a book.”

America wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed. He started laughing, regardless. “What book?” Then he caught sight of the one that England had left on the bedside table. He reached, picking it up and holding it near England’s face. “This one?” England nodded, reaching for it, but America lifted it quickly holding it out of his reach so England would have to make a stretch to get at it.

“Oy!” England grabbed for it clumsily. “Don’t be such an arse!” Grabbing at his arm England made as if to use the crook of America’s elbow to hoist himself up. With his free hand, he grabbed the back of America’s neck, squeezing it slightly as he reached up to the other. “Come off it!” he protested before hooking his arm around America’s neck and pulling the other to him so as to get closer to the book. 

His face pressed against England’s shirt front, America hooked an arm around England’s waist. He didn’t expect the other to use the little bit of leverage he’d gained to push him over. Now sprawled on his back with England above him, he could feel England’s fingers on his hand, taking the book. America couldn’t be quite sure what England had done to flip him over so easily. The book slipped through his fingers. He didn’t terribly mind. His heart pounded against his ribs. “You’re such a cheat, where’d you learn that move? The backstreets of London?”

“Or my pirate days, who knows” England shrugged eyeing the cover of the book “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,” he read out loud, “By Laurence Sterne. It's a satire. Sound good?” 

America leaned back on the bed in mock defeat. He shifted, trying to get a little more comfortable. “Let’s hear some opinions.” 

***

Rolling off America and onto his back beside him, England opened the book, holding it above his head from his prone position on the bed. He hadn’t even managed to get out of his clothes and into his nightshirt yet, his alcohol-muddled brain realized. Yet, the fact seemed to have little relevance. Clearing his throat he swallowed a yawn, watching the shadows from the candle dancing across the words on the page. The room was warm and comfortable, something England had never expected to happen with the two of them in the same room ever again. Yet, here it was, late at night, both warm from liquor and fire and doing something as simple as reading a book. Just like they used to do. 

Except for the fact that it was nothing like it used to be. They were no longer related through government bonds, America was no longer his colony or his brother. He was an unknown young man and a foreign nation. Clearing his throat once more England began to read aloud “Then, positively, there is nothing in the question that I can see, either good or bad.--Then, let me tell you, Sir, it was a very unseasonable question at least,--because it scattered and dispersed the  
animal spirits…”

***

America closed his eyes, listening to England’s voice. He could feel him close by, right next to him as he read. He shifted, rolling onto one side and using one arm as a pillow. He’d learned all about being lonely when he was small. Only himself at first, then England, then Canada and the rest. Distance meant something different. It was why he’d waited on beaches at first, at docks later, and waited for the white sails of England’s ships. Even when he’d declared independence or in the recent war, he’d waited. Fear or hope in his chest, it didn’t matter, the loneliness ended. Absentmindedly, England’s free hand landed on his head. He shouldn’t still be waiting, he knew that. A warship on the horizon had brought nothing but pain for half a century. Trade vessels brought things he couldn’t make for himself. He couldn’t help that hope that the pleasant winds would bring England as well. 

He shouldn’t be waiting, but he didn’t care.

***

The best kind of sleep was the one he wasn't trying to achieve. The one where his body and the world around him decided that it was time for sleep. England had experienced more than a couple of those types of nights through his many years alive and they never lost their importance or their potency. When light tapping on his eyelids woke him, England was pleased to discover that he had little to no hangover. It must have been the lack of food that allowed him to become tipsy so fast. To wake with only a mild headache, entangled within someone else's arms and legs was something he was quite familiar with, too. The mattress they laid on morphed around their bodies into a plush cocoon, its blankets keeping them at a perfect temperature. It was amazing. However, it was who he was wrapped up with that was not familiar. Eyes popping open he felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at America’s sleeping face. Muscles throughout his body tensed. 

This was a problem. 

When America was asleep he looked so much younger, like he had just before he had turned on him. Yet, there were subtle differences that even England couldn’t ignore. America was growing up. He was no longer that young child that ran around in a gown who wanted nothing but sweeties. The boy was even taller than him now and had no problem carrying England when he was unable to walk himself. He had gone from colony to nation so fast that England hadn’t truly realized that it was happening. Reaching up he brushed a stray lock of hair that had fallen across high cheekbones. 

The fact that America was no longer a child kept chipping away at him, every time he saw him England realized it once more and it took a little more from him. There really was no going back. England’s mind flitted back to their discussion in the hall at Belgium's home. He really did not know who this man was, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “Such long eyelashes, even now,” England murmured, pressing his forehead against America’s staring at the boy. America’s closed lids covering ocean blue eyes. England felt color cover his cheeks. Ocean blue eyes that were identical to the ones in his dreams. England swallowed, shaking his head lightly before the thoughts could awake him completely. His own eyes fluttered shut again, willing his breathing to even out once more. Maybe he could sleep a little longer. He was so comfortable and he felt safe, something that was a near foreign sensation to him. 

***

Someone was knocking on the front door. 

Shifting, America remembered with overwhelming clarity that he’d fallen asleep in England’s bed last night. And England had let him stay. Opening his eyes, he examined his face. The pretensions and concerns that he wore on it all day were gone as he slept, leaving it smooth and softened. While he’d been ill, his face would flicker with distress or nightmares and America had felt helpless to stop any of it. He didn’t like that at all.

Now, though, he looked peaceful. When he was little and England visited he would sometimes watch him when he woke up early. It was different now though, he wasn’t wondering when England was going to wake up and play with him. He wanted England to keep this look on his face. Freeing a hand from behind England’s back he brushed a thumb over England’s cheek, pausing when an expression flickered across England’s sleeping face. America’s eyes drifted to his mouth, it wouldn’t take much to kiss him. 

The knocking grew louder. “Alfred! I know you’re in there!” Canada. Whispering a swear, America slowly pulled away from England’s embrace, trying not to wake him as he climbed out of bed and headed down the stairs. He yanked open the door to find Canada scowling on the other side. “Where is he?” Canada demanded before he could speak.

“Who?” said America, crossing his arms and leaning on the door frame. The last time they’d spoken Canada had been putting Buffalo, New York to the torch. He wasn’t going to make this easy for him.

“You know perfectly well who I mean.” Canada made an attempt to get past him, but America planted his stance. “Damn it, America, you can’t hold him against his will!”

“I’m not. He was wounded at the Battle of New Orleans, I’ve been taking care of him.” Canada’s paused in his efforts to get in the house, eyes narrowing in suspicion. America put up his hands and side-stepped out of the way. “You don’t believe me, go and ask him yourself. You should wait though, he’s still asleep.”

“How would you know that?” asked Canada, his voice suspicious at first. He noticed America’s clothes and their rumpled appearance. “America, you... you shouldn’t take advantage of him while he’s ill!”

“Do you really think I would do that?! We’ve been spending time together. I don’t want to hurt him,” he said, lowering his voice, “I didn’t want to hurt you either.”

“Well, you did,” replied Canada, walking towards the stairs. 

***

England had heard the knocking on the door and normally would have moved to get it, however, he was frozen in place. America must have still thought him asleep and England saw no reason to let him know otherwise. Then, the other had stroked his face and now he wasn't sure what to do. It was not an accidental touch. For a brief moment, a familiar atmosphere had washed over their small world and he thought America was going to kiss him. 

Then it was shattered as a soft voice split the air in anger. It was Canada. England could hear them arguing downstairs. Sighing, England pushed himself up, collapsing the last of the comfortable illusion. The bottom stair creaked as England got to his feet and hobbled across the room. Yanking the door open, England limped into the hall, grabbing onto the banister. “Matthew, is that any way to enter someone's house, Especially in the morning?”

Canada paused at the top of the stairs, looking at England with a bewildered expression. America shouldered past him, Canada watching his progress towards England with suspicion. “I... I’m sorry to have arrived so abruptly, but there is news about Napoleon. He’s escaped his banishment.”

England had turned his attentions to America as he ascended the stairs, but Canada’s admission caused him to look sharply at the other twin, color draining from his face. “That is not possible,” England breathed. “How... how do you know this!? Where did he go!?” His hands gripped the banister so tightly his knuckles turned white in protest. Every little bruise and scrape he had received from the war with Napoleon throbbed simultaneously. 

Canada stammered over the answer. “I received a dispatch, they were unable to reach you so I was contacted.” 

“And!?” England doubled over the banister, eyes fixed on Canada. “Where is he!?”

Canada flinched at England’s tone. “There is a concern that he is rallying French troops in an attempt to rebuild the empire... England!”

America lurched forward, catching England as he fell. He held him close, as though he could somehow absorb the chill and shakes that had broken out on England’s skin. Canada stared at them but didn’t say anything more.

“And France is okay with this!?” England stared at the long-haired blond. “That stupid piece of shit.” He grabbed at America torn between shoving the other off to maintain his dignity and simply letting the American support him. “If that frog has taken him back... I'm taking his head.” England hissed.

***

Canada turned white. “England, I... I don’t think...” He looked at America and America’s suspicion was confirmed about his twin. Canada was seeing France, something had happened between them. He hadn’t gotten the knowledge from a dispatch, he’d been told it first hand. France was plotting one last stand.

America’s arm tightened around England’s waist. He was walking right back into a war, and America couldn’t even offer to help. His people would never agree to it. England was still an adversary, a looming presence, despite the thoughts he’d been having about him only minutes ago. “I can find you a ship. If you get down to the West Indies you’ll be able to get back to Europe.”

“No,” England said firmly and gripping the railing he hoisted himself to his feet. “Matthew and I will be finding one of my ships. I know I have some dock. The faster I can get back to Europe the faster I can take a page out of Henry VIII’s book on how to take care of a problem.” His expression was stormy. England eyed Canada. “And you will be coming with me. A lesson in how to properly handle an adversary is far overdue.”

Canada’s eyes flickered to America once again, and they both looked away. America had seen the upset on his brother’s face and there was nothing he could do about it. Was it possible to both be angry at someone and pity them at the same time? Probably. He followed England into the bedroom where he was hastily throwing his small number of possessions into the rucksack that had been on his back when he’d collapsed on the battlefield. America caught him by the back of his shirt and England turned. “Be careful, okay?”

England’s brow furrowed as he looked at America. “Yes…” he said slowly before shrugging the backpack onto his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“Just keep an eye out for my letters.”


	8. Language Barriers

_ June 24, 1815 _

_ Paris, France _

England could still hear the boom of the cannons, the screams of men and horses as they fell on one of the largest battlefields he could remember. Over 200,000 soldiers from six armies facing each other outside the Belgian town of Waterloo. Napoleon’s final stand. Even now as he sat in a stately carriage rolling through the streets of Paris, he could feel the loss deep in his bones. Fifteen thousand of his own men dead. Seven thousand Prussians. Thousands more of the rest of the Seventh Coalition. Twenty-six thousand possibly dead on France’s side, not counting the thousands of men captured and the rest that turned around and ran in the face of over 100,000 enemies.

He could still see Belgium on her knees in the bloody soil of the aftermath, horror on her face. Her big brother, Netherlands, trying to pick her up. Prussia grinning with bravado right before he collapsed from exhaustion. France lying in the mud. England himself waking up on a stretcher in a medical tent, before a pale-faced Canada had come to move him to his own tent. He’d left the boy at camp under a sleeping spell. He’d been pale-faced since they’d left North America, but he’d looked ready to collapse at the idea of facing France on a battlefield. Perhaps it had been too much for him. England felt guilt stir in his stomach. Canada had been through much the last few years. Perhaps he should have left him to recover, he never was as resilient as America.

England squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to think about him. The look in his blue eyes as he’d left him on the shores of the Mississippi. He’d been so pale in those days in New Orleans, despite the way he’d smiled and acted as though he’d recovered. The blows they’d dealt each other, England felt sick thinking about it. A feeling that he didn’t dare name stirred in his chest at that warm morning where he’d woken up wrapped up in the young nation.  _ Damn it all...  _

A shadow passed over his face as they rolled through a gate. England frowned, this wasn’t the palace. “Lord Kirkland, we’ve arrived.” said the footman, opening the door after the carriage rolled to a stop.

“This is where he wanted to meet?” 

“ _ Monsieur  _ Bonnefoy provided these directions.” England sighed and nodded, stepping out of the carriage, favoring the soreness in his bones. He accepted his walking stick and used it a little more than he wanted to as he hobbled towards the stairs into the manor house. The building still showed damage from France’s  _ Révolution  _ was still there in the stolen iron banisters and the lack of ornamentation on the door. It didn’t take long to be admitted into an inner room. Despite the summer weather, there was a banked fire in the fireplace. He could see the edge of a blanket draped over the side of a chair.

“Francis, why am I here?” he said from the doorway.

“Are you going to make me crane my neck? I have already suffered enough at your hands.” England huffed, but came forward into the room, dropping down onto the sitting couch. In truth, he felt dreadful and was grateful to be seated. France, in comparison, looked like he’d been stepped on by all of the horses in his decimated cavalry. Perhaps he had. His eyes were dull in a way England hadn’t seen since a few blows he’d been dealt in the Hundred Years War. His eyes lacked the smug gleam they’d held in the aftermath of America’s War of Independence, the fevered zealousness brought on by the French Revolution, or his haughty command when he’d temporarily been the most powerful nation in Europe. He was curled up in his chair, hair loose around his shoulders, the blanket stretched across his lap. His eyes flicked to England. “You look dreadful,  _ mon ami. _ ”

“Likewise. Again, why have you asked me to come here?” 

“Do you remember when we were young?”

“Francis...”

“Remember the way you bent over me at the Battle of Agincourt? I’d taken an arrow to the chest and you loosened my armor to push the point through. You said you were trying to help, but I knew. You felt powerful.” England felt the blush spread across his face. The memory of the night they’d spent together was still one for tavern gossip even nearly 400 years later. He’d broken France’s power that day.

“Of course, I felt powerful. You were a force to be reckoned with, and no one thought much of me. They all know better now, of course.”

A small snort of air from France and a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “We all know better now. You’ve shattered me,  _ Angleterre.  _ How does it feel to be more powerful than me once again?”

“You called me here to congratulate me?” England’s eyes narrowed. “Why does that sound so suspicious?”

“I want us to be friends.”

“Friends.”

“You say that as though it is absurd! If anyone knows your mind it is me. Changes are coming in the world whether we like it or not. It is only the beginning.” England leaned back in his seat, letting the decorum fall. France wasn’t wrong. They’d known each other for far too long and in too many intimate ways to stand on ceremony. 

“Fine, I will consider your offer of friendship. Now, while I would love to stay and take a trip down memory lane I have the future of Europe to influence.” He stood, nodding at him for his departure. As he walked past France’s chair, the other nation caught the sleeve of his coat, fingers still surprisingly strong despite his state.

“Arthur, please.”

“Francis... I can’t do this with you.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything, just sit. Let us... spend time in the pleasant fiction of this room. For a moment forget that there are so many men dead on Belgium’s soil. Sit, I will have some wine sent up and food, of course.” England frowned. It was hard to turn down an offer of France’s food. He looked up at the ceiling and let out of a sharp sigh. 

“All right.”

“I heard that you spent the winter with America. That is odd, no?”

“Christ, if you wanted me to stay perhaps we should speak of things lacking controversy.”

“I did not realize America still held so much controversy for you.”

“The ink was barely dry on the peace treaty.”

“And yet I hear you spent the winter with him. In New Orleans, they say.” 

“Who said?”

“Let’s just say, a little birdie told me.” 

England frowned. The gossips were always hard at work, perhaps he could control this one before they started speculating once again. “Will I get to actually enjoy this glass of wine if I tell you?”

“You have my word.”

“Like that means much.” England sighed. “I was wounded at the Battle of New Orleans. Three thousand men dead and wounded in thirty minutes can be a shock as you know. He... honestly, I still don’t know what he was thinking. It was so unusual.”

“Did anything happen between you two?”

“If you are implying what I think you are, you disgust me.” 

France started to laugh. England shook his head and threw back the glass of wine. He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “You’ve honestly never thought about it? The lord of eros never thought of debauching a young nation?”

England refused to let his face tell any tale.. France would know all about debauching young nations. He was going to need far more wine than was currently present to banish the thoughts that had driven him to drink in the aftermath of America’s alliance with France. He would not give in to whatever emotion curled in his chest. “I’m afraid that behavior is exclusive to you and Spain at the moment.”

“Ah! He took Italy Romano to bed at last?!” Grateful for the change in subject, England indulged France’s desire for gossip after being isolated from so many over the last few years. He ended up sleeping on France’s couch, shocked that the other didn’t reach for him once the entire evening. He couldn’t deny that he was relieved, there was just something about this new century. 

Everything felt changed.

 

***

 

_ August 1, 1816 _

_ Albany, New York _

 

_ Dear Arthur, _

_ You told me I could write to you, so here I am. This season has been the strangest thing. A kind of fog has fallen across my coast that no rain or wind will disperse. The sun shines red through it and it’s made everything cold. The ground was still frozen solid in May. It was snowing in New York even in June. There is frost on the ground even now all throughout my lands. Nothing has grown all summer. In fact, the weather seems backwards. The frost was so bad that it froze the roots of the crops and nothing grew. The corn never ripened. As the railroads are not complete food can’t be moved.  _

_ Before you worry that I’m asking you for aid, I’m not. I mean, the snow was kind of fun at first, but you know how much I don’t like the cold. Well, I thought about that winter when I was little, and luckily it’s nothing like that. I’m sure it’s temporary.  _

_ The next time I see you I have some logbooks to show you. You should hear the stories about rivers full of fish and herds of animals so large that they stretch from horizon to horizon! Wouldn’t that be something to see? I heard another story about the land that spits boiling water from the earth. It still seems a little far-fetched, but wouldn’t it be something if it was real? I’m going to find out if it’s real one of these days. _

_ I’ll write you again soon. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Alfred _

 

_ P.S. Don’t judge my handwriting too harshly. My fingers are a little stiff from the cold.  _

 

***

 

_ Dear Alfred, _

_ I won't lie, I was shocked to receive such a somber and  straightforward letter, from you of all people . When we discussed conversing through pen and paper across the water I expected your correspondence to be littered with sketches and little stories that trailed off and never finished as you proceeded onto the next one. _

_ Even if you had asked for food, you are correct, I could not send it. It seems as if the entirety of the northern hemisphere as others have informed me, are also experiencing this year without summer. It makes me wonder if it is something that we nations or our people have done. If it is a punishment of sorts. I have discussed the problem with  Vladimir (Romania) and  Lukas (Norway) and yet even their insight into the arcane has proven fruitless.  Alas, it seems that we shall just have to wait it out.  While you have been out exploring I have been mourning the death of one of my people, a woman by the name of Jane Austen. Remember that, for I guarantee that one day her name and her literature shall be important to every school child and academic who favors literature. Her writing will preserve this time period and its quirks for centuries to come.  _

_ Your servant,  _

_ Arthur  _

_ Ps. As if the the rivers stretching horizon to horizon was possible. _

_ Ps. Ps. You’ve never had neat handwriting. _

 

***

 

_ October 19, 1818 _

_ London, England _

 

America couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face when he saw him. Even from the railing of the ship he could spot England immediately, waiting near a row of carriages. London was different than the last time he’d seen it. Smoke always hung about in the air from the thousands of fireplaces, but now it was intensified by the black smoke from the factories. It mixed with the clouds over the city and gave everything a grittier feel. No wonder England’s novelists had become fond of gothic writing in the last few years. Not that America was reading British novelists, not at all. He picked up his bag, not bothering to wait for his delegates and moved through the crowd towards England. The other caught sight of him and America was sure he detected a small smile on his face.

“It seems the tide came in with haste today,” England commented when the other blonde stepped in front of him. “You don’t look too green. So I take it that your trip went well?”

“I’m getting used to traveling on the ocean. I’ll probably be able to keep up with you soon.” America wasn’t entirely sure how he should greet him. They were at peace, the wounds of the past not nearly so close to the surface. He didn’t know why, but the pain England had inflicted in the last war already felt behind him. Friendship felt more right. A hug was what he wanted. Instead, he extended a hand. “I’m glad to see you don’t look like you were in the way of a buffalo herd anymore.”

Reaching out he took America's hand, shaking it firmly. “At least you've gotten better at thinly veiled insults, though you are hundreds of years too young to even think you will be able to catch up to me in that arena” England responded, dryly, before letting go of the boy's large hand. He gestured to the carriage. “We shall be dining back at Buckingham House. I figured on the ride there I could test your mannerisms and make sure you are up to date on the current court etiquette. Although you shall be given some leeway since you are from the colonies.”

America climbed in, refusing to be impressed by the craftsmanship. “Are they still calling me a colony? It’s been 42 years.” He watched England as he climbed into the carriage after him. He was wearing one of the newer fashions, his cravat a complicated knot. America wondered how long it would take to untangle. Before he could follow that thought to its inevitable conclusion, he cleared his throat. “Thanks for that novel you sent me. My people aren’t writing much yet, but you know that our literature is going to be great.”

“I feel as if you and your people will forever be referred to as the colonies,” England said lightly as he tapped the wall of the carriage, ignoring America’s comments about literature. With an audible snap of reins, the coach lurched forward, the coachman beginning his navigation through the bustling narrow streets of London. “I know for a fact that you never met her Majesty, but did you ever meet His Majesty?” England looked from the window back to America.

“Crazy King George? Mr. Adams didn’t think it was going to do anything for his cause to parade me around in front of him when he was an ambassador, so I stayed away from the court. Hasn’t his son taken over?”

England bristled. Glaring at America, he said through gritted teeth, “George IV has been serving as Prince Regent since his father's illness became worse.” He exhaled heavily through his nose. “You shall not be meeting with his esteemed Majesty, but rather the Prince Regent and the Queen Mother. However, the Queen Mother shall be departing for Kew Palace in Surrey in just two days time.” England took on a warning tone.

“Don’t worry, Arthur, I’ll be nice. We’re making a deal, right? Sharing the Oregon Territory and everything.” America ran a hand through his hair and leaned back into the plush carriage seat. He looked at England for a moment and then leaned on his elbow, watching London out of the carriage window.

“That is all I ask for.” England sighed. “Things at court are a mess right now. Tensions are high.” He shook his head. He shot a glance at America with concern, “Also...we will not be the only nations in the palace.  A handful of  nations have traveled in with dignitaries to visit court.”

America looked back at him, that was a bit of a surprise. He’d been looking forward to having England to himself. After all, this convention was supposed to be about signing the new treaty. “Who’s here?”

“Prussia and Germany, although they are mainly here to speak with the Queen Mother. Poland, Romania, and Norway are here for trade reasons. Scotland and Ireland... should actually be gone by the time we arrive…  that would leave the Netherlands, Spain.” he cleared his throat “And... Portugal.”

America had been interested at first, but then the corners of his mouth turned down. “I see. Nice of you to make time for me, England, I appreciate it.” He crossed his arms and looked away from him. At least the trip wouldn’t be a total loss. He’d finally know where he ended and Canada began and at least he could hang out with Prussia. Germany had sent him some sketches of machines, America could give him the notes he’d made in person then.

“We will be spending time together. Many of them have been in court for a decent while.” England frowned. “Just because one is at another's court does not mean that you are always together. Plus, I thought you would be excited to meet nations you have yet to meet….” He heaved a sigh. “Look I know the last time you and Portugal were in the same room... things didn’t necessarily go smoothly.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” America grumbled. Brazil had been talking, she wanted independence. America planned on helping her keep it, but England didn’t need to know about his plans for the western hemisphere, yet. “Not to mention, Spain might not be my biggest fan right now. Maybe you’ve been too busy... but I annexed West Florida not long before our war, and well, I’m currently occupying East Florida. I’m colonizing it.”

“Yes…” Spain did mention something of the sort.” England sighed “We talked about it... and with Portugal... he still won’t tell me what sparked your fight. But he promised to behave.” England looked at America, leaning forward in his seat “ Will you tell me?” He gripped the door as they hit a particularly rough bump.

“About Florida? It’s really different from the rest of my lands, it’s tropical. You should have seen the big cats they have down there! It looks like a catamount, but it’s black. The Seminole isn't giving it up easily though. Neither are the Spanish. It’s going to take a while to carve out enough farmland, but the soil is rich. Lots of alligators though, do you remember the little one in Louisiana? These ones are even bigger, as long as this carriage some of them. You should see the birds! All kinds of colors!”

England would have given anything to give into the stories that America told with such excitement, but his need to know wouldn't let him.If it was something that would easily spark another argument between the two he certainly wanted to avoid it at all costs. The last thing he needed was to have his specifically invited guests to get into a common brawl in his palace. ” He reached forward, grabbing America’s knee. “America, don’t avoid my question.”

England’s hand on him distracted him from what he was saying and he trailed off. He looked at England’s face for a moment, he didn’t want to answer. Canada was right, England didn’t see him that way. “Do you remember when we were in the house in New Orleans? That night before Canada showed up?”

“Yes…” His brow furrowed. “We went out... did some drinking and then I read you a book until we both passed out.” He shrugged. “What of it?”

America blushed. That was right, England wouldn’t remember. He’d gotten out of the bed before he woke up. He touched the back of England’s hand that was still clutching his leg. “Portugal, I think he’s jealous of me.”

England laughed. “Jealous!? America...” He shook his head, feeling his concern dissipate. So, it had been a simple misunderstanding after all. “Whatever would he be jealous of you for?”

“Probably just jealous of my landmass,” he replied, sullen. He was silent for a moment and then leaned back against the wall of the carriage with a sigh. “I don’t know maybe he thought I’d steal you away.”

“Steal me away?” He covered his mouth with his hand, chuckling again. “Honestly, I knew he was foolish. He was under Spain's rule so some of the airheads must have rubbed off.” He shook his head with another laugh. “First, how can you steal away something that doesn't belong to him. Second, you and I have nowhere near that type of relationship.” 

“It’s probably just the old rumors still circulating,” America said, leaning away from England’s touch.

All laughter left England's face and he stared at America as they passed through the gates of the palace. “What rumors?”

America looked back at him, surprise crossing his face. “The ones from around the Declaration. France and Prussia both asked me about it... I don’t know where they heard it from though. There were several versions, but the gist of it was that you’d taken me to bed and broken my heart so that’s why I was leaving. I think even Hesse mentioned it once, but my memory might be faulty on that one because he was holding a bayonet to my throat.”

England's nose wrinkled “That is foul.” He shook his head. “As if that was possible back then.”  He looked out the carriage window as they approached the palace entrance. He had heard that disgusting rumor circulating around. It had made him sick to his stomach and even now it made him nauseous.

An image of America, at the time of his revolution, flickered across his thoughts and he shook his head. It wouldn't have been possible. He had been a child. He shot a brief look at America, that uncertain feeling swelling in his chest again, before mumbling to himself, “Things change.”

“They all seemed pretty convinced it was possible.” America sighed and looked up at the carriage ceiling. “Oh well, maybe you can set him straight. It’s not like there’s anything going on between us...” England could have sworn the boy sounded wistful.

“You’re right.” England nodded as the carriage came to a halt, a footman promptly opening the door. “Nothing at all,” he muttered, stepping out. A silence fell over them that England couldn't put as name to as they walked up the steps. Turning to look at his guest, he couldn't stop his smile when he saw that America had stopped following him and was looking up at the palace in awe. “Are you going to stand there all day? I need to show you to your room so that you change for supper.”

America followed him through the palace, trying to take in as much as he could. England showed him into his room. “Thanks, I suppose I should get dressed.”

“If you need anything just summon one of the male servants. If it's anything serious.” he gestured to the hall.  “This is my private wing. I am next door. Supper will be within the hour. Treaty discussions will be in the morning. Prince George wished to have festivities tonight.” He smiled and left for his own quarters.

 

***

America checked the cut of his jacket in the mirror. It was the newest fashion and it was one he liked, the cut accented his waist and he knew it made him look dashing. Straightening his waistcoat he heading out the door and down to dinner. A footman announced his presence and he was the second to arrive. England was standing next to a nation America didn’t recognize. He glanced at him with a cool gaze.

 

“Ah, Alfred.” England waved him over “Alfred, this is Lukas. Lukas, Alfred.” England gestured between the pair. Norway nodded his head in greeting to America before shooting a look at England. 

“Arthur, you told me that you would be introducing me to Matthew first. The gifted one.”

“He was unable to make it I am afraid.” England cleared his throat. “But you will meet him soon,” England promised before shooting a glance an apologetic glance at America.

“It’s nice to meet you, as the  _ ungifted  _ North American,” he said, throwing England a look. “I’ve been adapting Sweden’s log cabins for the frontier. I think some of the designs might be yours.” He couldn’t tell what Norway was thinking, but he offered a nod. America would take it and offered one in response. “You don’t flatter me too much do you, Arthur?”

“Pardon us, Lukas. Just a moment.” England smiled at Norway before grabbing America’s arm and pulling him away. England glanced back at Norway to see him heading towards Romania who was chatting with Poland. Turning to face America he sighed “America, it's not the way Lukas made it sound.”

“How was it meant to sound?”

"Lukas and Romania wish to meet Matthew because he shares our talents. He has gifts in the arcane arts.” England pinched the bridge of his nose. “You have your talents as well.  But they are just particularly interested in his,” he explained.

America stared at him, it was that fairy and ghost nonsense again. He shrugged but was spared from answering by the arrival of the German brothers. It didn’t take long for Prussia to cross the room and grabbed him in a hug. “Looks like you aren’t any worse for wear for your confrontation with Arthur a few years ago. We had bets on whether you two were going to destroy each other.” Prussia started laughing. “Or who knows maybe do something else to each other.” America blushed.

Germany cleared his throat. “It’s good to see you again, America.”

“Yeah, I have those schematics you sent. Great stuff.”

“My little brother just married off a princess to the Duke of Clarence and St. Andrews. You missed a good party. Arthur, why don’t you invite Alfred to more of your infamous parties? He’s an up and coming nation.”

“Alfred has been rather busy.” England crossed his arms. “I suppose he could come to George’s Coronation when it happens.” He arched a brow, looking at America before looking at Germany. “How is the Queen Mother? It has been awhile since you last saw her Ludwig.”

Germany nodded to England. “She is doing quite well, I’m afraid I never knew her well, with myself so ill while she was a young woman and living in Mecklenburg-Strelitz. I don’t remember those days very well.” His face took on a cloudy expression and Prussia disengaged from America to stand near his brother. He whispered something to him in German and Germany stood up a little straighter. “I appreciate the opportunity to speak with her and to escort Princess Adelaide to her wedding.”

“Of course.” England smiled brightly. “She is a great influence on William. He is much happier than he has been in such a long time. I believe that their marriage is going to be a good one. She’s a beautiful young woman. I have spent a decent amount of time with her. She is very bright and if fate is kind will be with child in short time.” England smiled, and looked at America. “It was a good match. A shame you don’t have a princess or prince to marry off. We could strengthen government bonds as well.”

“They are welcome to come visit and see if there is anyone they like. You might want to wait a few years, my people aren’t so keen on you. Well, your government anyway.” He shrugged, throwing England a small smile. “Spend some time in any port and there’s plenty of girls waiting for British sailors. If you’d spend less time invading me you might have figured that out.”

England scowled “I am not arguing with you here.” He looked away and back at the German brothers. “I have yet to introduce Alfred to Romania, so if you will pardon us. I am sure that he will be more than willing to speak with you later. I will be turning in early tonight so while I have the chance I should get introductions out of the way.” He smiled as the two nodded and he gestured for America to follow him across the room. 

“I wasn’t trying to argue with you, you know,” said America, leaning down to England’s ear as they walked away.

“By suggesting in front of others that our relationship is nothing but violence?” He turned to look at him, having to tilt his head back to look at him they were so close. “How is that not trying to start a fight?”

“All I was trying to say that there’s a lot of American hearts pining for British ones. I didn’t think that was grounds for a fight.”

England looked into America’s eyes and his response came quickly. “Well, I guess some things are mutual.”

America searched his face, waiting for England to contradict what he’d just said, but no dismissal came. The only distraction from the entrance of Poland and a nation America didn’t recognize, who must be Romania. With England’s back turned, he took a shaky breath, trying to ground himself again, hoping his face wasn’t betraying all the emotions that had just rushed through him. He hid it all behind a grin.

 

***

“Vladimir,  Feliks!” England called out, feeling entire that he’d said too much. Feliks whirled around, raising a hand to wave at the pair. The shorter strawberry-blonde look around the Feliks, eyes fixing on America. For a brief moment, the Romanian scrutinized America before frowning at England who sighed and muttered, “They are never going to let me live this down. He  turned to guide America forward “Vladimir this is Alfred.”

“Hello, I’m guessing I’m not the brother you were looking for.” America offered a hand as it was becoming the fashion as opposed to bowing, and Romania took it.

England smiled as Romania grinned back. The Romanian was a cheerful nation, a tad eccentric for England's taste and he had an obsession with much darker magic than England himself normally messed with. England looked to Feliks who shook his head slowly, causing England to sigh. England looked to America “Well, I think you have met everyone. Think you can finish up on your own?”

“Where are you going?”

“I am turning in early for the night. I am very tired.”

***

America watched him go, the others seeming nonplussed by, to America’s mind, England’s abrupt departure. Prussia caught his eye and beckoned him over. “Don’t worry about him, he’s still recovering from the war. Not like yours truly, old France couldn’t keep me down for long.”

“Except for the fact you retired about an hour after Arthur last night,” said Poland, flipping his hair. “Not so awesome.”

“Is that a challenge, Feliks?” said Prussia, climbing out of his chair and looking like he might make a move for the man on the other side of the table.

“Brother, you shouldn’t be starting fights in your condition...” said Germany, putting a hand on Prussia’s arm and pulling him back down into the chair. Romania and Norway just shook their heads and continued their conversation. Poland said something to Prussia that America didn’t quite catch and chaos broke loose in the room, Germany immediately trying to arbitrate. Not wanting to get caught up in any European squabbles he made his way to the edge of the room and slipping into the hallway. He got lost at first, but a servant helpfully pointed him back in the direction of his guest quarters. Remembering that it was England’s private corridor, he began poking his head into rooms.

It was in the third one, after a parlor and a small library, that he found England. The room seemed an extension of the library, books lining shelves along one wall and a large desk. There was also a small tea table near the window. England was leaning over something on the desk, concentration lining his face. It reminded him of a long time ago, or even when England had returned to fight France. The memory wasn’t as bitter now that England was more absorbed in maps of his lands than his person. Maybe things  _ could  _ change. “I thought you said you were tired,” said America leaning on the door frame.

England jolted, surprise causing him to nearly tip his chair, one hand flying to the top right drawer of his desk. He stared America with wide eyes. “Didn't I teach you that sneaking up on people is rude!” he snapped. Standing up he closed the logs he had been reading, voice not as sharp. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I would check on you.” He leaned up off the doorframe and walked further into the room. There was a covered dish on the corner of England’s desk and he lifted up the lid. “You didn’t eat?”

“Not yet, no. I didn't want to until I was done with these logs.” He sighed, looking at America, confusion crossing his features. “Wait a moment, dinner is just now being served, did you leave before you ever ate?”

“It’s possible that Poland and Prussia are going to declare war in your dining room and I figured I would use the opportunity to escape. I figured I could just have the servants send something up.” He dropped down into one of the chairs across from England’s desk. It was straight-backed, but the cushion on its seat was plush. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the edge of the desk and resting his chin on them.

“Unless it's over Lithuania I am not worried.” England snorted, sitting back down. He watched America for a moment as if he was waiting for him to make a request. “I take it you plan to eat in here now?”

He shrugged. “Unless you are going to ask me to leave.”

“Well I never wanted to leave you... so, I guess that it would be stupid to ask you now,” England said quietly as a male servant appeared in the doorway. “Grab mine as well.” He gestured. “And send up the next course. Master Jones and I shall be dining”

“Yes, my Lord.” The man set the trays down and with a bow hurried out of the room.

America started in on his food. England had been importing cooks again, so it was a little more flavorful than when he would cook himself. England was still absentmindedly flipping through the books and barely touching his own plate. “You should eat, you’re still thinner than usual.”

England paused. He had been reaching for his wine glass when America had made the comment. He frowned at the other. “I have always been slight, nothing has changed.”

America reached forward and caught England around the wrist. He’d rolled his sleeves back from when he was working on the papers and America’s fingers closed around his skin. “I can feel every bone in your arm.”

***

England stared at the hand on his wrist, silently contemplating. “You seem concerned,” he whispered. He closed his eyes as he exhaled. America was complicated. No, that wasn't it. Being with America was complicated. England wasn't sure exactly what the other wanted of him. Sometimes it felt like old times. And others, it felt like they were on the edge of something very new... yet, England was not ready to put a label on it.

“Am I not allowed?”

“I never said that.”

***

“That’s good,” said America, “Because I was going to keep an eye on you anyway.” It was warm in the study, the fire throwing heat through his clothes. He couldn’t be sure all the warmth was just from the flames, however. He loosened his grip on England’s wrist, settling his hand back on the table. That was grounding and far less dangerous than what he might say if he continued to touch him. It should have been remarkable how fast he’d bounced back from feeling terror and pain over the war to almost... comfort and peace. The scales tipped whenever England was involved, but they kept finding ways to balance back out.

 

“You.” England started but thought better of it. He shook his head, instead spearing a potato and taking a bite. He arched a brow at America as if to say ‘better?’

America smiled at him. “Now if you’d just stopping making the face Canada had the first time he ever tried your cooking.”

England scowled “Matthew likes my cooking thank you very much!”

“He tolerates your cooking.” A bittersweet smile crossed his face, Canada wasn’t talking to him. In truth, he wasn’t terribly fond of him at the moment. He was always quiet, but the total silence was loud. America went back to his own food, hoping that he could drop the thread of conversation as soon as he’d brought it up.

***

“My cooking is fine. Better than that Frog’s.” England muttered, stabbing at the food on his plate before putting the fork down. He grabbed his glass again. He just hadn’t had much of an appetite over the last couple of days. It happened from time to time. Leaning back in his seat he watched America eat. At least the kitchens wouldn’t have gone through all that work for nothing. America had always had a rather healthy appetite as a child and it seemed as if nothing had changed. He displayed that during their time in New Orleans and even now.

“What?” he asked when he noticed England watching him.

 

“I don’t think I’m going to eat much more.” England pushed his plate towards him. “I am saving room.”

“For?”

“For that.” England nodded with a smile as two bowls covered with cloth were brought into the room. “He is not finished. Do not bother clearing the last course yet. Just set the bowls down,” England ordered and for a brief moment the servant hesitated but followed through no less. After topping off their wine cups the servant bowed as he was dismissed.

Grabbing the bowl, England tossed the cloth off to reveal a personal cake-bread. Taking his fork he broke off a large chunk before shoving it into his mouth with a small noise of approval. He chewed thoroughly as he gestured to the dishes that filled the desk. He was honestly surprised by America’s admission that he was looking thinner. Sure, England would admit that he hadn’t been eating as much as usual, but when he did it was mainly sweets. George himself had brought it up with England one evening and the empire could do nothing but shrug. That was all he wanted as of late, maybe it was because of an increase of finery and sweets that had appeared in court and the common people were beginning to mimic it the best they could. Who knew?

America finished off his plate and then started in on his own dessert, sharing his own appreciation. Bowl scraped clean, he stretched in his chair. The cut of his coat was a little tight, and he had to stop mid-stretch, no doubt to avoid popping a seam. England put down his fork with a pleased sigh, he was tempted to call for more, maybe when he was alone he would. He watched as America stretched. “Do you want to call for anything else?”

America leaned forward, pulling the jacket off. It stuck a little, but he managed it with some maneuvering. He sat it on the edge of the desk, looking much more comfortable in just waistcoat and shirt sleeves. “Is there more?”

“Supper or bread-cake?”

“Any of it.” He rubbed at his stomach. “I’m always hungry.”

England stared down at the four plates on the table. All of them empty, and he had only truly eaten one of them himself. He looked back at America. “You’re going to get fat if you always eat like that.”

“Do I look fat to you?” he asked, standing up and turning around as if he was getting fitted at the tailor.

“I said you’re going to.”

“I doubt it. With all the adventuring I plan to do, I won’t have time.” He paused with his back to England and stretched his arms over his head. “The invitation is still open. You can come exploring with me.”

“Exploring?” England asked dumbly, watching the boy stretch. It hadn’t been his imagination, the boy had gotten broader in the shoulder. The fabric curved over the lines of his back. He could give Spain a run for his money, he was getting broad lines and muscular. What did he look like beneath all those layers? England recoiled mentally. Where the hell had that thought come from?!  “Uh no, busy,” England said quickly.

“That’s too bad. It would be fun.” He let his arms drop, swinging at his side. He turned around, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. “I’m going to sleep. See you in the morning at breakfast?”

“I take breakfast in private. But I shall see you after, yes.” England nodded. “Good night, Alfred.”

America headed to his room, England’s eyes on him until the door closed between them.

***

_ October 20, 1818 _

Walking down the hallway towards the room where the treaty was to be signed England heaved a sigh. He had not slept well at all. The lewd thought that had crossed his mind his mind at supper had continued to plague him and as if the devil himself had enjoyed his misery, the thought only expanded and grew in detail. He had even considered postponing the meeting that morning to try to get some sleep.

 

He hadn’t even bothered with breakfast, just stared at the top of his four-poster bed. Then all of a sudden he was in front of the door to the room. “Damn it all,” he muttered and after makings sure that he was all in order physically he walked into the room and any confidence he had shattered, there was only one individual in the room and, of course, it had to be America. 

***

America was reading over the document and checking it against the map. The reason they needed to negotiate the lines is the Treaty of Paris was based on incomplete knowledge. The Mississippi didn’t extend as far north as they had thought at the time, so it was useless to define the border that way.

The 49th parallel that was what they decided on. America ran his finger over the map, east to west, until he got to the Oregon Territory. They were going to share that. America circled the space. It felt important. Sharing territory.

***

England really didn’t want to talk to him. Swallowing he took a step back, maybe he could just back out and wait till the delegates arrived. Taking another step back England sighed as he bumped into the door frame, boot-clicking loudly.  To hell with it all. Blue eyes flicked up, landing on him. “Good morning,” he muttered.  

America smiled at him, waving him over. “This map has all of the newest discoveries. I’ll show you.”

“I've seen it.” England responded, moving closer but opting to stay on the other side of the table.

America shook his head, coming around to his side of the table and turning the map to face them. “I’m sure you looked at the agreement, but look here. Soon, we’re planning on following this tributary. We think it goes all the way west.” He grabbed England’s hand to trace the line of the river across his western frontier.

Now fate was just being a fucking asshole. Turning red, England yanked his hand from America’s. “I can see that!”

America blinked, confusion crossing his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” he looked away. His cheeks felt ridiculously hot. He glared at the table before repeating, “It’s nothing.”

“Do you have a fever? You look flushed.” He reached out to touch England’s forehead.

“When did you become so handsy?” England pushed his hand away, stepping back from America. “Honestly.”

“Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed? I thought you would be interested.” His tone shifted, enthusiasm draining from his voice.

“I am interested” England looked at him. “I’m sorry. I just had a rough night.”

America nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“What do you mean?” England’s brow furrowed. There was no way that similar thoughts could have kept his ex-colony awake.

“I have a hard time sleeping when I’m not at home. I mean, I guess that’s not what kept you up, but it’s hard to sleep with... well...” An embarrassed smile slid over his face. “It almost made me want to call on you, but you said you were tired and...” He shrugged. He rubbed his palms on his trousers and turned back to the map so England couldn’t see his face. “It’s not like things would have been the same as before.”

“America you could have called on me.” England frowned, grabbing the other by the elbow. “If you were having that much trouble I would have figured something out.”

He didn’t look at him, just poked absentmindedly at the map. “I guess if neither of us was sleeping we could have found something to do.”

England froze. No, there was no way that America was even thinking along those lines. Memories of last night flooded through his mind and England felt his face heating once again. “Uh... um.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “I suppose…”

Before America could speak again, the human delegates arrived to go over the finalization of the treaty. America was happy to sign it, handing England the pen and the inkwell. When England’s fingertips brushed his, the smile on his face grew.

“You're a loon.” England muttered, signing his name with flourish. Finishing it off with a large ink dot. He handed the well back, grabbing America’s hand. Maybe the other had meant what he had said earlier.  “Is that why you and Portugal had that tiff at Belgium's party? Is that the real reason?”

America looked back, wide-eyed. “Is what the real reason?”

England frowned, the boy was gonna actually make him say it. “Vicente was angry because you were trying to take his place…” He faltered. Hopefully, America understood without him having to continue.

America pulled his hand out of England’s grip and trying for a moment to put his hands in his jacket pockets. Unfortunately, the cut of the coat was insufficient, so he settled for putting them behind his back. His jaw tightened, the smile becoming more forced. “You’d know his mind better than me.”

England frowned. “You…” England stepped back. Of course, it wasn’t. “Nevermind.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, your comment last night and our conversation in the carriage... I figured that they had some merit or connection. Apparently not.”

“The rumors or the fact that Portugal is jealous of me?” America asked, voice low.

“The jealousy issue. I thought everything was finally making sense.” England muttered. “The... the only reason Vicente would be jealous of you... is that if you were trying to take his place... well...” He looked away, sucking on his teeth. “His place in my bed.”

England felt his stomach churn uncomfortably. He hoped that wasn’t the case. Portugal may still have the delusion that they were more than bed partners, that they were lovers, but it was far from the truth. And England desperately hoped that America didn’t want to take Portugal’s place as merely someone to sleep with. They had just gotten to a point where they could exchange greetings without things being hostile. He knew America was desperately trying to become a large nation of his own, but he hoped he wouldn’t try to take the same path that Portugal was taking. Portugal had been brought up in a very different way and varying circumstances than America had. They were far too different to take the same path.

***

America stared at him, trying to think of what to say. He didn’t want it to come out like this, in a confrontation where England looked horrified at the very idea. He couldn’t tell him now! He wasn’t ready! What was he supposed to say?!  _ I’ve loved you since the French and Indian War, but you were too busy punching France to notice?! You mean a lot to me and I don’t know how to exist without you? I want you?   _ Everything he could think to say sounded childish and it made him feel nauseous. He had to say something! “I... no, I don’t want to just warm your bed if that’s what you’re asking.” Nervous laughter escaped his chest. “I’m not warming anyone’s bed if you’re worried about it.”

***

“Whose bed you are in is none of my business, Alfred.” England responded dryly. That was a relief. The boy didn’t have it in him. “I was... curious about the fight.”  He stepped away from the table. “Well, the treaty is signed. It seems that the rest of your morning is unplanned. The court has much to offer. If you need anything a servant can certainly get it for you.”

“I guess I can find something to do. Maybe I can convince Spain to just sell me Florida. Cuba wouldn’t be bad either... you said he was around here?”

“Yes, he is here.” England nodded. “Please have Master Jones escorted to where Master Carriedo is. I know I saw him in the garden with his ambassador.” He gestured for one of the guards at the door. “I have other things that demand my attention.” He looked back at America. “I shall see you at supper.”

***

England had planned his entire day around getting paperwork done, yet he spent much of it listening to George rant about Caroline and watching Charlotte try to calm him down. It hadn't been very productive in his opinion, but it was his job as a nation and as someone who had raised the boy. But it had done nothing but stress him out and cause his head to pound. They had more things to worry about than this. If they would just have let George stay with his previous lover none of this would be happening. Upon reaching the doors of his private dining hall England fixed his face into a polite mask as he heard the other nations chatting inside. Walking in as he was announced England’s attention zeroed in on America.

***

America turned to look at him as soon as he came in, trying to cover the smile that threatened to break across his face by taking a sip of his drink. The day had started out fairly well, passing into the uncomfortable with England’s line of questioning and then Spain refusing to budge on inch on the matter of Florida. The argument had lasted well into the pre-dinner gathering. Spain was now draining a glass of wine on the other side of the room. America frowned at him from over Poland’s shoulder. He was standing next to Germany, only half listening to Germany’s description of an idea he had for a new type of steam engine. He didn’t notice until he lowered the glass that Poland was watching him. “Sorry, did I miss something?”

“I was just asking you about the new railroad you are building from the coast,” said Germany.

“Right,” America replied, launching into the details of the rail lines he had planned. Trains were going to change so many things! He couldn’t help but toss a glance over at England now and then, especially as England settled into a chair near Spain and Prussia. He tried not to do it too often since he could feel Poland watching him.

***

“I heard that you two convinced the kitchens to send you up your own party's worth of alcohol.” England shot a glare at the two friends as he sat down beside them.

“Oh  _ ja _ , well when you are the awesome me you totally have to when you won’t share the location of your personal liquor cabinet.” Prussia chortled, Antonio, laughing along.

“Well since I haven’t heard about any fires or anything priceless being destroyed, unlike last time, it seems that you have behaved yourself by your standards none the less.” England said flatly, taking a filled wineglass when it was presented to him. Leaning back in his chair England watched as the first course was brought in, the last of the nation's finding their seats.

“Oh Arthur, if we were gonna party that hard than we would have sent for you, just like last time.” Antonio laughed, leaning into England’s space.

“You reek Antonio! How much have you had to drink today alone?” England’s nose wrinkled as the smell of Port practically rolled off of the nation in waves.

“Eh  Ahh  _ no demasiado Arthur mi amigo, pero no lo suficiente _ .” Spain laughed, his green eyes focusing flicking to America.

“So did you two end up having a discussion this morning?” England asked as Spain glared at the blue-eyed blond.

“No, the little shit won’t budge.” Spain grouched.

“Language, he is a personal guest,” England warned, pinching the Spaniards arm so that he would stop slouching. As the brunette straightened England turned to the bowl of soup and bread placed in front of him and was set to ignore the Spaniard until he had sobered up some.

“Hey, Arthur?”

“What is it?” England sighed, looking to the ceiling as if divine grace would save him.

“You think he would go to bed with me?”

“Excuse me?” England froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Ya know, the treaty shit and all. He’s not a little scrawny thing at your heels anymore. All big empires fuck the smaller ones, I am surprised you haven't-” It was instantaneous, neither nation knew what was happening until it happened. Spain flipped out of his chair with a swear, grabbing the tablecloth and pulling half the dishware around the table crashing to the floor. England didn’t even remember moving, but there he was, standing above Spain with his fist in the air.

“How dare you!” He hissed, anger not quelling in the least as he watched the Spaniard clutch his jaw, covered in a myriad of soup and alcohol. “Discussing such vulgarity in my house! Regarding my personal guest!” he snapped. Prussia was on his feet instantly, fingers instinctively grasping for a sword that wasn’t there and then making a face and dragging Spain away before England could pummel him again.

“I see the keyword is personal,  _ mi amigo.  _ Only you get to have a taste,” Spain said, rubbing at his jaw.

***

America was aghast, shocked at the look on England’s face. He hadn’t seen it in years, not since he’d heard France had almost captured him in a battle. He didn’t expect the firm grip grabbing him by the arm. Both he and Germany were being propelled out of the room by Poland. “This is, like, old friends only.” And unceremoniously they were shoved into the hall and the door closed behind them.

America looked at Germany, “Do you know what they were going on about?”

He shrugged. “It’s not unusual for dinners to end poorly. I made the mistake of trying to get all of my older brothers to agree...”

“How long until we should rescue them?”

Germany sighed. “If we hear glass breaking it may be time to intervene.”

***

“Oh, you want to talk personal!?” England hissed, as Prussia helped Spain to his feet. “You really want me to bring up Lovino?!”

“Don’t you dare!” Spain snapped his lighthearted expression darkening considerably. “He has nothing to do with this!”

“With your comments, it certainly sounds like it does,” England snarled. “And if you are going to talk about big empires and shit then you should really take a step back because the last time I checked Roderich has knocked you off that pedestal!”

“That is, like, not fair, Arthur.” Poland sighed from the door.

“I don’t care Feliks! He talked about taking Alfred to bed with him tonight! Vulgar statements about my personal guest at my personal table!”

“Come off it, it’s not like no one’s said worse things at your table.” Prussia laughed, trying to break the tension.

“Would you want me to discuss at your table how many times Ludwig has come to my bed Gilbert? No, you wouldn’t, because it's rude and disrespectful.” England growled as the albino’s face darkened. “Now you see why I find problem with it. It’s personal and nobody else's damn business!” England straightened as if a rod had been jammed down his spine. “I will have dinner sent to each of your private quarters as the dining hall needs to be cleaned now.” Upon receiving no protests he turned to Romania and Norway who sat at the far end, watching everything pass along.  “Vladimir, Lukas, I shall meet with you tomorrow afternoon as planned, Feliks we will still go riding tomorrow morning and Antonio, Gilbert I shall see you at dinner.” Turning around stiffly, England walked across the room, yanking the door open and all but stormed into the hall.

 

***

 

America had been contemplating opening the door despite what Germany said, when it came flying open to reveal England red-faced and fuming. No one remaining in the room looked too happy either. Prussia stormed out a minute later. “C’mon Ludwig, I need a proper beer not this frilly stuff. I’m going to the docks.”

“What--?” America began to ask, but Prussia thrust a finger in his face and America had the unsettling memory at just how often Prussia had sent him sprawling in the dirt.

“You. Go after him. I always thought you were out on a limb, but...” Prussia laughed, turning away and throwing an arm around Germany’s shoulders. “May you never be stupid enough to get into a mess like this, West.”

Germany threw America a bewildered look, but allowed himself to be dragged down the hallway and out of sight. America turned away and went in the direction that England had stormed off in. What did Prussia mean by a mess?

It took nearly a half hour to find him. England was standing, hands resting on the mantle of a large fireplace. The room was a parlor, but not one America had been in before. On the mantle sat a glass and beside it a decanter of scotch.

“England?” he said. When he didn’t respond he added, “Arthur?”

“What are you doing here?” England asked. “I had supper sent to your room.” He picked up the glass, swirling around its amber contents before taking a sip. “If it wasn’t to your liking you know you can just order the kitchens to send up something else.”

“The others were worried about you, well Prussia, sort of. I got a little lost, do you really need this many rooms?”

England gave him an incredulous look. “It's a palace, Alfred. By definition, they have many rooms.”

“Of course, but do you need them?” He walked closer and stood against the cream wallpaper that England had probably traded for in Asia. It had birds on it that he’s never seen before anyway. Turning around, he faced him. “He’s being a jackass over Florida, but you didn’t have to hit him for me.”

“He was being vulgar at my dinner table. He deserved it.”

“Isn’t that just Spain though? He puts on romantic airs almost as bad as France. What did he say?”

"Francis isn't so blatant. And Antonio was outright vulgar, using tasteless language out loud about one of my personal guests.” England scowled. “I shall warn you, he may try to enter your bed tonight. The drunken bastard that he is.

“He was talking about me? I didn’t expect that... we’re fighting right now,” he replied, settling his hands on his hips, face incredulous. “I’ve never thought of him that way.”

“It doesn't matter if you've thought of him that way. It's just what nations do.” England sighed before muttering. “Should have just threatened to tell Lovino.”

“They’re...?”

“They act like no one knows about it, but it’s obvious.”

“So, you were defending my honor?”

England gave him a look. “If that's how you want to phrase it, then yes, I was defending your honor.”

America blushed and looked down at his shoes. Why had England done that? “You don’t have to, you know, I can handle myself.”

England gritted his teeth “Duly noted. I shall stay out of your way next time.”

Stepping forward, America put a hand on England’s shoulder. “I just don’t want them to think I need you to fight my battles. Or to turn down advances.”

England stared at the hand on his shoulder before turning back to his drink. “I said I would stay out of your way.” He huffed, his face still troubled. America wanted to ask, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask why England was so upset. Was it Spain? Or was it the fact that someone else had talked about bedding him? Was he jealous? America didn’t know what to do with that thought.

The silence that fell between them grew uncomfortable, America was aware that he’d let his hand linger far too long on England’s shoulder. England was throwing back another shot when he moved, stepping back. The heat under his skin wasn’t just from the flames or the wine he’d drunk. What was England thinking? He’d hit Spain over him...

“I’m leaving day after tomorrow. We should do something fun.”

England looked at him quickly “Such as?”

“Anything you want.”

England stared at him before stepping back from the mantel with a sigh, racking his brain. “Well, there is a performance at the theatre tomorrow evening. I was planning to head out to London to browse and shop. Perhaps you want to attend me?” Crossing his arms over his chest he waited for America to think it over.

“I’d like that.”

“Good.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes. America wanted to say more, but his body began to feel strange. It wasn’t the usual feeling he got when England was nearby, but something that had to be coming from home. Maybe it would pass if he got some sleep. He said goodnight to England, too abruptly if the way the other’s eyebrows pulled low was any indication.

It was when he woke up in the middle of the night shaking from chills and sneezing uncontrollably that something was going on. The bank... that must have been it. Congress had been arguing about it when he’d left. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this!

Creeping out of bed he made for his writing supplies. He would need to leave a note if he was going to be on the next ship pushing off for home.

 

_ Dear Arthur, _

_ I have to leave because of things happening at home. _

He wasn’t sure if he should elaborate. Every sentence he could think of sounded like an accusation. Part of the bank problem was the market awash in cheap British manufactures. England could probably figure that out for himself. At any rate, he knows it if the New England states got that tariff they were after.

_ We’ll have to go to the theater at a later date. _

_ I will write to you. _

He argued with himself over the way to sign off and in the end, just settled for his name.

_ Alfred. _


	9. Infatuation

January 20, 1819 

Dear Alfred, 

The things that have happened since I last wrote you have been vast in number. As I am sure that you have heard by the time my letter reaches you but yesterday King George IV has replaced his father King George III, God rest his soul, as the official King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The event should have been completely joyous for George as he had been serving as Prince Regent since the year 1811, yet it was overshadowed by the death of yet another member of the royal family, his little brother, Prince Edward. So many of the royal family has passed in the last couple of years, his sister, father, and mother included. Often his Majesty has been known to just sit and stare out the windows of his chambers. 

In addition, yes, the rumors that I know have crossed the ocean are true. George’s wife Caroline of Brunswick has indeed been turned from the castle. The fights they had were most grievous and despite the scandal and the whispers that rush down the streets of the nation, I believe that it is the best option at the moment. Neither was happy and with that no one was happy. I maintain my optimism that things will get better from here. 

Your Servant, 

Arthur

***

July 8, 1822

Dear Alfred,

I am sure that by the time this letter reaches you that you shall be cross with either me or Matthew. Do not be mad at him. The chief of the Chippewa tribe addressed my government specifically in regards to offering that piece of land in Ontario to me. I am sure you thought that Canada was giving in to imperialistic persuasions, but I assure you that, that is not the case. I am also aware that my correspondence has been lacking, but I have been busy working with Parliament and His Majesty. His Majesty will be headed for Scotland next month, the first time one of my monarchs has touched Scottish soil since 1651, so you can gather the amount of preparation that is required. I shall not bother you with the fine details. I hope this letter finds you well. 

Your Servant, 

Arthur

***

August 9 1823

Dear Alfred, 

Forgive my briefness, but I am in the middle of a war with the Ashanti people. Not much else has happened that is worth the ink. At least nothing that my mind can conjure at the moment. Perhaps I shall send a follow-up letter after this one. 

Your Servant.  
Arthur

***

December 23, 1823

Dear Arthur,

I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the position I’ve decided to take in regards to the Western Hemisphere, the Monroe Doctrine. If you haven’t, well, I’m sure Vicente or Antonio have something to say about it. If any European power tries to reconquer an independent colony, I’ll take it as a personal offense. And I’ll stop them. We, the New World, need to be separate from the Old. It’s better for all of us. I mean, I like Prussia and all, but joining the Holy Alliance I can’t get behind. You know better than anybody that I’m not for the idea of a King. I’ve seen your ships around, but as long as they aren’t causing any problems I won’t do anything about them. 

You should have seen some of the reports from Major Stephen H. Long. He returned from a journey to the Rocky Mountains in 1820. He described a Great Plain that I’m going to have to see for myself. He doesn’t think that there’s much to it, but I mean, an ocean of grass? Can you imagine it!? He’s calling it a “great desert,” but I don’t know if I believe him. Mexico goes on about some big hole in the ground, a grand canyon or something. I don’t know what it is, but I want to see it. Also, don’t worry about what Canada might say. I was just exploring the other side of Lake Huron.

Oh, and by the way, tell Antonio he should just leave Mexico alone. I mean, he signed that treaty to make him independent. Although I don’t know how I feel about him calling himself the Mexican Empire now. Whatever, maybe I can make him be reasonable over Texas. I mean, I helped him win some of those battles and my people were there. In fact, I’ve made a deal with him, Americans are allowed to settle in Mexico now. 

Sincerely,  
Alfred

***

May 11, 1824

Dear Alfred, 

Oh trust me, I hear your message loud and clear, did I not say that my navy was going to aid in the enforcement? Although it sounds, when you put it that way, that you want nothing to do with us, the old world. So does that mean that you have no desire to speak with me any longer? Although I find it ironic that the “old world” is what you want to call everyone but yourself. For you know what? You sound just like France, Antonio, Prussia etc when we speak of the days of Roma Antiqua.

I write to you from a place that I have never been before, a place the natives call Burma. Or rather one the seas surrounding it, Yangon harbor. I have come with 10,000 men, 5,000 British soldiers, and over 5,000 Indian sepoys, and entered the harbor of Yangon, taking the Burmese by surprise. Earlier, I was in a place called Cachar but left the infantry to lead my naval forces. This collection of battles, to which I see no end in sight, have been labeled in documents and journals as the first Anglo-Burmese war. Which makes me uneasy, why do they assume that we shall have more wars with these people? Even for someone such as I who has a rather realistic view of life does not automatically view it in such light. 

Honestly, like my last letter, there is little to for me to tell you for it would be rather stupid of me to talk about battle plans and such through interceptable correspondence. In April my government spent £60,000 on an artist's collection, a man by the name of John Julius Angerstein, and they hope to use it to make a National Gallery in London this very month. Perhaps, if you chance upon London in the future we shall go have a look. King Kamehameha II of Hawaii and his Queen Consort Kamāmalu are in London on a state visit right now, so I suppose that could be considered interesting information. But that is the last of the news that I have for you. As I said, I am at war and, besides that, the people of England seem to be rather content to go about their business at the moment. If it were not for the battles I am currently engaged in I wonder if I would feel a sense of peace. Such an odd concept. 

Ps. If you are going to call yourself a nation now then act like it. You speak with Antonio, I don’t speak with the prat unless I have to.

Your Servant,  
Arthur

***

April 23, 1825  
New York City, New York

“This is gonna be a problem” Canada muttered, staring at the door in front of him. And it wasn’t just any door. It was America’s door. He had told America that he was visiting, but he hadn’t really been expecting to come with any news, at least important news. America had been so busy that he wasn’t even certain that his brother had noticed his absence. He had spent the last several months with England in London as he left his troops to battle in Burma while he dealt with a more upfront crisis. Canada had barely stopped in his own home before traveling down to New York. At least America had forsaken his Boston home for the time, New York City was much closer. Clutching a newspaper in one hand, he ignored the heavy letter in his right pocket and knocked softly on the front door. Maybe he would get lucky, maybe America would be out. 

At first, the door didn’t open, but Canada could hear footsteps inside. Then the door flew open. “Matthew? What are you doing here?” America stood in the door frame, ink on his shirtsleeves and a streak of black across his cheek. He must have been working on something. He leaned on the doorframe and crossed his arms.

“I sent word ahead.” Canada sighed quietly. “It's April,” he stated and when the other just blinked, he continued with another sigh, gesturing at the two bags at his feet, “It's April, which means it's chilly, and I sent word ahead... or am I not welcome here?” He eyed his twin silently. The other had changed so much over the last couple of decades he wasn't sure what to expect.

America tilted his head. “It’s April? Wow, it feels like it was New Year’s not that long ago... and I must have lost the letter. I’ve been really busy.” He picked up the bags and walked back into the house, Canada hesitating in the street. “Aren’t you coming?”

Canada nodded slowly, the newspaper crinkling audibly in his hand as he clutched it tighter. America's banks wouldn't feel its effect quite yet. If it hadn't been for him just literally being in London and so close to Arthur, Canada himself might have remained blissfully unaware. Following his brother inside he promptly removed his hat and gloves, glancing around quietly.

“I didn’t exactly get a chance to clean up,” said America, walking into the parlor and hastily piling all of the papers he had strewn about the room. Silently, Canada joined him, helping pick up. A small wooden figure wearing a battered red coat was laying on the floor and he picked it up. When America saw it, he snatched it out of his hand. “Don’t worry about that.” With space cleared on the sitting couch and chairs, America gestured for Canada to sit. 

Arching a brow Canada opted to stay silent, sitting next to his brother, pulling the bags close to his feet. “You act as if that is something new, Alfred,” Canada commented dryly.

“I thought you wanted me to change,” he said, elbowing Canada in the ribs. “So, you brought me stuff?” He launched into the bags and came back up with a sweet. America put the candy in his mouth and watched Canada, his brow furrowing a little bit. “You seem different. Where have you been?”

“Well, yes, I technically brought it. It was Arthur who sent me back home with it. A bag for me and one for you. He said, ‘Alfred’s diet is atrocious, but if it's going to continue in its atrocity he might as well be eating better quality.’” Reaching over Canada plucked out a bundle of burlap wrapped licorice. “I've been in London for the last couple of months with Arthur,” Canada slipped in quietly before continuing on about the sweets. “Arthur sent sweetmeats, jellies, sugared almonds, marzipan, and gingerbread.” He ticked off the list on his fingers, chewing on a piece of licorice thoughtfully. 

***

America leaned back in his seat, sneaking one of the other candies from the stack. He could tell Canada was waiting for him to ask about England. In his last letter, England had started off chiding him as though he were still some child at a schoolhouse desk. But then... then he’d started talking to him like they were friends. He glanced over at the stack of letters that he’d hastily shoved under some diplomatic documents. Just before Canada had arrived he’d been rereading them, holding a page close to his face, wishing that it still held that faint smell of England’s. Unfortunately, they only smelled like paper now. “Why did he need you?”

“He didn’t really need me.” Canada shrugged, crossing his arms comfortably. “Sometimes, he just calls upon me when he wishes to see me. I hadn’t planned to stay so long, but you know, things happen.” Shrugging his shoulders again, he glanced around the room taking in America’s stacks of diplomatic papers and other government-related documents. He seemed impressed. “I was just visiting really. He got a little stressed towards the end.” He lifted the paper in his hand “Considering his stock market crashed and all.”

“What!?” America grabbed the newspaper and unfolded it. The London Times was emblazoned across the top and he scoured the headlines. “How have I not heard about this? I have journalists in England... how new is this?” He looked at the date of the newspaper. That was why the news must be reaching his shores at the same time that Canada did. “He could have asked me if investments in South America was a good idea... who the heck is Poyais, anyway? Is that even real?” 

He frowned tossing the newspaper onto the coffee table and leaning back, crossing his arms. That idiot! Didn’t England know that when he screwed up like that it affected him, too?! Maybe not. He sniffed. “Since he let you leave... I guess that means he’s okay now?”

“Alfred, why would he ask you if it was a good idea?” Canada hesitated with his next answer to America’s questioning. “Well, he was no longer restricted to bed rest when I left. Although he did not see me off at the dock like he normally does. We were taking supper with His Majesty when he collapsed.” He shook his head. America could see that he was worried, no doubt remembering Arthur’s collapse. 

America stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. He should go over there. Or something. He walked over to the fireplace and put his hand on the mantle. It was where he’d settled the wooden figure that Canada had picked up. He looked up at the toy soldier that England had given him so long ago. “He should have asked me because I know them better than he does,” he said, his words sullen. He sighed, pushing back from the mantle and dropping into one of the armchairs. “Besides, he can ask for help. Depending on how he asked I could give it to him. I mean, even my people like Englishmen, just not England, you know?” 

Lips pressing into a thin line Canada frowned, looking out the window before saying, in a rather uncharacteristically strained voice, “It will be Francis helping him out. I saw him walking towards Arthur's private quarters as I left.”

“C’mon, they were ready to kill each other ten years ago!”

“They are always ready to kill each other. That hasn't stopped negotiations in the past.” Canada frowned. “And why would Francis sail all the way to England to just talk with Arthur? He's obviously going to bail him out.”

“Okay, so he’s going to loan England money. So what? I’ve borrowed money from France, too.”

Canada turned violently in his chair, staring at his brother. “If you are implying that you lied to me in the past…”

“Lied about what?” said America, surprised by Canada’s reaction. What was his problem?

“You told me you never shared Francis’ bed” Canada frowned, tone becoming accusing.

America nearly choked on the piece of licorice he’d just put in his mouth. “I didn’t!” he said, when he’d regained his breath. “It’s not exactly a requirement. Wait. You think they’re... No. There’s no reason for it.”

“Was there any real reason for Vicente to visit Arthur's chambers as often as he did?” Canada felt his pale face turning red as the conversation continued down an inappropriate path. It was terribly embarrassing, but the jealous accusation had slipped out before he could stop it and now it seemed determined to run its course.

“Is that flapdoodle hedge-prowler still lurking in doorways?” America said, leaning forward in his chair, settling his elbows on his knees.

“Vicente is a nice man.” Canada protested weakly before backtracking “I mean he might, well- Arthur has set us to talking more than once...” he muttered, “Though it could all be fake. He probably has unpleasant qualities... Or well he does.” If America didn’t know better, he’d think Canada actually liked the man and was trying to appease him. 

“You aren’t mad about this?”

“About Arthur's...well, private affairs?”

“No,” America said, rubbing his face for a moment before settling back down in his seat. “Francis’s. Or are you not in love with him anymore?” 

Turning red, Canada turned stubbornly towards the window. “I... Francis does as he pleases. Just because we have--” Blushing harder, Canada ran his hands through his hair in embarrassed frustration. “It's not my place so it doesn't really matter now, does it?”

Grasping the arms of his chair, America took a deep breath. Standing up and wandering over to a bookshelf he shifted some of the books before he found a bottle of white whiskey that someone had given him some years ago. It was strong, but he didn’t particularly care. He pulled the cork and the smell of the alcohol flooded the room. Canada wrinkled his nose. America swallowed a mouthful and winced at the harsh burn of the high proof liquor as it settled in his stomach. So, it was true. He’d guessed that Canada and France had been up to something, and now he knew what. Going back to his chair, he sat the bottle down on the table between them and leaned back in his seat, putting his stockinged feet up on the surface. Time to see if he could get to the bottom of this. “Would you say the same thing if I was the one fucking Francis?”

“I'd call you a traitor and ask why you would betray your brother,” Canada said firmly.

“Then why don’t you ask Arthur that, he lets you call him brother,” replied America, “And I get that France is a bed hopper and courts everyone... but I wouldn’t accept it. If England and I ever--” He bit off the end of the sentence. Canada did not need to know that he was still interested in Arthur, not at all...

“That sounds impertinent, doesn't it? Plus, Arthur doesn't know and I don't want him to. There is nothing official between Francis and I so complaining would be moot.” He frowned. 

America leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how Arthur beds people he doesn’t care about and I don’t understand how you don’t think you get to have a say in what your lover does. Or are you thinking of Arthur now, bed warmers or whatever he calls Vicente.”

“That's the thing. Francis and I aren't lovers. Just because we shared a bed once.” The way Canada said ‘once’ made America think it couldn’t have been one time. Canada gave him a strange look. “You don't seem to get it. Just because we slept together doesn't make us... well, courting, I suppose.”

“You’re right, I don’t get it. If I had someone I cared about, I’d want to make sure we were together...” America reached forward for the bottle of whiskey and hesitated for a moment before taking another shot. “Whatever makes you happy I guess. Are you happy?”

“I'll survive,” he muttered.

America looked at him for a moment, then got out of his chair and rejoined him on the sofa. Wrapping an arm around Canada’s neck he pulled him into a half hug. “It wouldn’t kill you to stand up for yourself either,” he said, leaning his cheek on the top of Canada’s head. 

Allowing America to do so, Canada heaved a sigh. “And be in the same situation you are with Arthur? No, thank you.”

America rolled his eyes. “I’m not in any sort of situation with Arthur...” he grumbled. He needed to change the subject before he said more than he meant to say. Releasing Canada with a pat on the shoulder, he asked, “So... is France as good as everyone says he is?” 

“ALFRED!” Canada stared at him, horrified, face flushing. “Did you seriously just ask that! I... He... yes...” he stuttered.

America couldn’t help but laugh at the look on Canada’s face. “Don’t worry I won’t press for details, you might melt all the snow in the Arctic. Apparently, I missed out, so you should be grateful I care about you, huh?” Canada shoved him in the shoulder, giving America half-hearted glare, knowing that America wasn’t serious. “You know maybe you were right, back in the war. Find someone else to be in love with... you, too.” He wrinkled his nose and reached forward for another for a piece of marzipan.

“I was... I was angry and that was an insensitive comment.” Canada sighed, reaching for the bottle. “If it was that easy do you think I would be infatuated with Francis?”

“An infatuation is it?” Canada didn’t reply but took a double shot from the bottle. It was all bullshit. Canada felt more than he was letting on. America ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head and then letting them fall along the back of the couch. “Have you told Francis how you feel?”

“He doesn't know,” Canada admitted.

“Wait, how can he not know if you’ve been in bed together? I would think...” America blushed. Wretched liquor! Maybe he should ban the stuff, it kept running away with his tongue. 

Canada shrugged, sinking into his corner of the couch. “You take what you can get.” 

America stared at him, leaning back, mouth in a frown. “Where’s the Matthew that burned down Buffalo? I mean, I hate that version of you, but he wouldn’t let France just slip off to other people’s beds without a fight. Especially England’s, they get each other all riled up.”

“Are you really the person to lecture me?” Canada shot him a hard look. “Do you really want to discuss why you let Vicente get away with it? Or Antonio? Ludwig? Shall I go on?”

America tried to keep the look of indignation off his face. Seriously, how many were there?! He bit the inside of his cheek, but words slipped out regardless. “I wonder how Prussia feels about his little brother in England’s bed and wasn’t he sleeping with Hanover during my revolution? How long has this been going on?” 

“It's been just after your revolution, perhaps. I’m not entirely sure.” Canada shrugged. “I know they already had that awkwardness you created with Vicente.”

“I created? Did you know England asked me if I argued with Portugal over who got to be his bed warmer? As if I would want that.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “He doesn’t love them,” he said, feeling certain about that. Canada could take that statement as he would. He could feel his eyes on him and he stared pointedly at the table, not looking back at his brother.

A huff of frustration slipped between Canada’s lips. America could hear him shifting around, measuring the words he was about to throw at him like aimed shots from a rifle. “It’s not fair that they think I’m the more innocent since I’m not as headstrong and noisy as you. Anyhow, the notion that love has anything to do with the other is childish.”

Fidgeting, America stood, going over to one of his stacks of papers and picking up the top sheet to buy himself some time. He looked at the page filled with numbers of goods shipments that were going out of Long Island. After a minute, he sighed and sat it back down. “Well, it matters to me. Why do anything if you aren’t passionate about it?”

“Oh, there is passion,” Canada muttered under his breath. He gave him a strange look. “You seem to be rather idealistic about it all.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“Just because you sleep with someone doesn't mean you love them,” said Canada, using the tone he would take when they lived together and America had forgotten to take his boots off after coming in the door.

America crossed his arms and turned away. Canada’s implication that he was being naive stung. “I know that I’m not a little kid. Nevermind. How’s the Reform Movement of Upper Canada going?” Canada had just been putting another piece of candy in his mouth and it was his turn to choke on it. America patted him on the back.

“How on earth do you know about that?! Who else knows?!” Canada’s face grew pale. America almost felt bad about bringing it up... almost.

“I think only you and me. They aren’t exactly quiet though. So, when are you going to declare independence?”

“I’m not! They are just a few groups talking to each other, no organization behind it at all.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said about the Sons of Liberty, too. Think about it, if you were independent you could tell France how you feel.”

“You’re independent and you haven’t told Arthur how you feel.”

“I... I don’t care about Arthur.” He could tell it was a weak lie as soon as it came out of his mouth.

“I can’t tell who is more stubborn about things, him or you.” Canada stood up, walking towards America’s kitchen. “I’m going to go make something for us to eat. You can finish up whatever you were working on.” He disappeared through the doorway and America didn’t follow. He stewed for a minute, then picked up the satchel England had sent. Beyond the sweets, there was also some clothing, the wrong style as always. There were a few books as well. America smiled, it was one of the ones that England had talked about. He placed it besides the little wooden figure, thinking about what Canada had said. 

He didn’t want to be with England like that. They would be lovers or nothing at all.

***

July 4, 1826

Dear Arthur,

I know you probably think I’m writing to you on my birthday to rub it in your face... but that’s not the case at all. It sounds weird, but I kind of wish you were here. A long time ago I didn’t think it was a big deal for leaders to die, after all, new leaders always appear. But... I think I finally understand. I got sad news this evening... John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, I’m sure you remember them, they both died today. They aren’t the last of the Founding Fathers, but... I remember them sitting together, and Dr. Franklin, too, helping me get started. Yeah... I guess you’re the last person I should be talking about this with, but well, here I am writing anyway. It’s kind of weird, John Quincy is president now. He was just a kid when you met him, I think.

I’ve heard of the Sandwich Islands or Hawaii. They sound like an interesting place. I’ve been exploring more into the Pacific myself and there are nations I couldn’t even imagine! I’m kind of curious about that one guy off the coast of China who won’t talk to anyone. Japan or something? Maybe I can get Netherlands to put in a good word for me. Never mind, scratch that, I think I still owe that guy money. 

I wouldn’t mind coming to see your paintings. I don’t know if I really get art, but all great nations have art, right? Maybe one day you’ll pay that much money for an American artist.

Oh! The Erie Canal got finished last year (although I’m sure you already know that, I saw some of your merchant ships going through it), now there’s no need to sail so far north to get into the Great Lakes! Oh, and by the way, Canada’s been acting weird, has he said anything to you? 

Sincerely,  
Alfred

***

June 1833

Dear Arthur,

I’m not really sure what day it is anymore. I’ve been on the trail for at least a month now, maybe a little longer. I’m headed for Oregon! To be honest I’ve wanted to see it for myself since we agreed to share it. I’m actually on the back of my horse as I scribble this down. I’m in the Great Plains. The sky is so beautiful here, it’s like it goes on forever! It’s blue in a way that I can’t quite describe. It’s like you think you know blue and then you see the sky over the Nebraska territory. The sea of grass wasn’t an exaggeration! It stretches from horizon to horizon broken only occasionally by a river or a few trees. I saw an eagle the other day. So awesome! I’m thinking of leaving the trail to go with some of the men to go and see if we can find Colter’s Hell where water shoots out of the ground. One of the guides claims he’s seen it. I’ll let you know.

I can almost hear you even all the way out here, telling me I’m avoiding my problems. I’m not avoiding them, I’m just... walking away. The nullification crisis in South Carolina wasn’t something I was expecting. It’s like... I felt like something was really wrong. It seems to be better now though. I mean, the situation with my bank and the Black Hawk War isn’t, but... I’m not thinking about that out here.

Anyway, I’m going to keep rolling along and I’ll let you know what the Oregon territory actually looks like. 

Yours truly,  
Alfred

***

March 6, 1836

Arthur,

I’m furious! I mean, Texas isn’t mine, not yet, but... it feels like it should be, you know? There’s more of my people living there than Mexico’s and it’s still unclear where what I bought from France and what he won from Spain even ends! I even offered to buy it from him! More than once! I kind of get why Spain won’t sell me Cuba, I mean I don’t, but I did take most of Florida out from under his nose. I mean, technically I said I wouldn’t take Texas when he let me have Florida, but that doesn’t count anymore now that it belongs to Mexico.

Anyway, I have a feeling the battle at the Alamo is not going to be forgotten. Anyway, Mexico’s president declared all of my people as pirates if they were fighting on Texas soil alongside the Texians. Can you believe that!? I wasn’t there... but word came that the battle ended today. They killed all of the men defending the mission! All of them! It’s... it’s unbelievable. I’m not going to be able to let this stand. Mexico better think better of it next time. Texas is going to be mine, I can feel it.

In other news, I’m about to be 25 states. Arkansas is going to be my newest addition. I’ve gotten a fascinating new invention to show you next time I see you.

With sincerity,  
Alfred

***

December 23, 1836

Alfred, 

From what I have heard from other nations, you have been rather... busy... violently busy if I must say. And honestly, if you wanted Cuba then you should have thought ahead when you proceeded so underhandedly with the territory of Florida. What were you thinking? (Do not even justify that with an answer for I shall just ink out your smart ass response) And you know how you sound talking about Texas like that, very old world. Just thought that I should point that out.

And in regards to the blue sky, I do in fact know what you mean. When you have sailed the oceans for as long as I have, especially before the ships of today, the blue of the sky, the ocean reflecting it back. That was a blue, a true blue.

Years, it has been literal years since I have responded to your last letter, and I am appalled. I have started many a letter in hopes to respond to yours, yet things kept getting moved, lost and sometimes I think even the maids, who are probably tired of looking at all the paper on my desk as I, may have been thrown some away as they have suddenly vanished into mid-air. However, that does mean that this letter shall be much longer in length than the last couple. And as much as I would like to address the most recent, and rather appalling, information that I have for you, I believe that a chronological letter is in order. 

And as my luck would have it, the first thing that I had wished to tell you was of a mournful nature. I do not recall if you ever met Prince Frederick or not, the one time you were in London. He is George’s little brother. He passed away January 25, 1827, of a problem of the heart, and I found that I grieved harshly. He was so very important and did his best to offer me comfort during the incident between us stressful times. 

I could, of course, go on about more political things, such as the the Treaty of London, though I am sure that you are more than aware that France, Russia and I demanded that the Turks agree to an armistice in Greece on July 6, 1827, so I shall not bore your short attention span with the details. 

Alas, that brings me to another sad topic, King George IV’s death. Young George’s death hit me harder than that of his father, perhaps because of his father’s death of the mind, I had already said my goodbyes long before his physical body also perished. George began to lose his mind like his father, yet never to such a degree. He died the night of June 26, 1830. His only child, my dear Charlotte Princess of Wales, died while giving birth to a stillborn baby. This is why his younger brother, the third of my Hanover Royal line, has now taken the throne. I believe that is the last sad thing that I must write this letter. Thanks to the Heavens. 

However, like in my last letter I mentioned that I would be more than happy to show you the National Gallery in London (Matthew found it fascinating), I have another thing that I believe you would most enjoy, knowing you, probably even more so. As I am sure your papers spoke about, or Matthew told you, but on April 27, 1828, the London Zoo opened. Now originally the zoo was supposed to be used for scientific studies only. Yet in 1831 or 32 I am not quite positive on the exact dates, I shall have to verify them later, the animals of the Tower of London menagerie were brought to the zoo.

( The zoo is not open to the public, if it ever will be I am uncertain, but of course we shall be able to get in with little to no fuss as I have already broached the topic with His Majesty King William who assured me that my desire would be met when I called upon it.)

And as if London did not have enough excitement with the zoo and then the menagerie being moved on August 1, 1831, the New London bridge was opened. Oh and the crowds of people that gathered around in such a flurry of excitement. The banks were packed, loaded with people in their Sunday best, laden picnic baskets hooked in the crooks of arms or on top of small picnic blankets. So many flags were raised as the river was jammed to the brim with boats all waiting to sail beneath the finished structure. Even now I can feel the tingle of adrenaline slither down my spine. It was a sight to behold!

And then but a month later His Majesty William finally had his coronation on the 8th of September. By grace, he was getting impatient, and I admit so was I. Though, I am sorry you missed it. Not only were you not in attendance for little William’s coronation, but you also missed dear George’s. The rest were in attendance, and honestly Alfred, this is the last time I make an excuse for why, as a very loud up and coming nation, you were the only one of my... deeply entwined allies that were not in attendance. Next time I shall leave you to their heckling. And my news only gets better from there

August 28, 1833 is a day that even you should remember Alfred. The Slavery Abolition Act receives Royal Assent, abolishing slavery in most of the British Empire. Is this not something that you should be doing as well? Given all your speeches of freedom. Perhaps you are too busy exploring. Young nations are known to do such things, even when given wise advice. Although I shall not waste the ink on it anymore as my good news continues. 

At Belgium's ball, you meet the Colony of Good Hope. Perhaps next time you are in London you shall meet the new Colony that has recently joined...the family. As of August 15, 1834, Parliament gave its permission for the creation of the South Australian Colony. Jett is a very rambunctious boy, I am sure you two shall get along fine, supervised of course. 

And last, but not least, the most puzzling thing that this letter needs to address. One of my scientists must not have been in his right mind before passing. For he addressed in his will that if his nephew were to die without heirs then all of his money was to be donated to an unrelated party. The United States of America. And this money is to be donated, to be used to start the Smithsonian Institute. I have checked all the laws, bylaws and records and it seems that it certainly is, by the stretch of the imagination, legal. Although what possessed the man to perform such a feat I have no idea. I am sending copies of the verification and research that I have already performed along with this letter. 

I wasn’t sure where this letter was going to end, but it seems that the ink in my well is just about used up and it is far past time for me to turn in, so I believe that is a sign. I hope this letter reaches you in good health. 

Your Servant,  
Arthur


	10. Coronations and Confusions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King of England has died leaving the throne open to a young woman named Victoria. England has invited America to join him for the coronation, an honor that leaves them both wondering what exactly what it means. As the celebrations continue, a choice may tip the scales changing their relationship forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning(s): Drug use (opium).

_June 20, 1837_

_Dear Alfred,_

_It is way too late into the night for me to be writing this too you. But I am having trouble sleeping. My King, His Majesty William IV passed away today with complaints of pain in his chest. His wife, Her Majesty Queen Adelaide, whom Ludwig and Prussia spoke of years ago when you were here in London, sat next to me at his bedside as he passed. The passing of a King is grief enough, but now it is even more obvious at just how difficult this is. Their majesties never produced any legitimate heirs between the two of them which means that the crown falls to the nearest legitimate blood relation. That would be a young girl of eighteen years, Princess Victoria of Kent. Her coronation will be happening next year and I am personally inviting you to the event. A coronation is something that you have never experienced and I feel that it would be beneficial and a wonderful thing for you to attend._

_Your Servant,_

_Lord Arthur Kirkland_

***

_June 28, 1838_

_London_

“We do not have the time for this,” Prime Minister Lamb muttered, glaring angrily out of the coach windows across from England as the blond nation scanned the crowds nervously. England nodded in agreement. 

“Nothing we can do about it now, William.” England sighed, casting a brief glance at the middle-aged man. William Lamb, Second Viscount of Melbourne was the Whig party member in charge of Parliament. It made sense that he would be the one accompanying England in picking up America from the docks for Victoria's coronation, but he did nothing to help with England’s nerves. 

Gripping the edges of the small window, England pushed his hat tighter onto his head before giving the ceiling two solid taps. The carriage was getting nowhere in this mess, and they didn’t have the time. It was barely after dawn and the docks were already swarming with people. It didn’t help that a royal carriage was rolling into the docks on coronation day. It caused the crowds to intensify in their curiosity. Pushing upon the door and ignoring the protest from Viscount, England hopped down from the carriage, shoes clicking against the worn down cobblestone. “Luck must be with me” England heaved a sigh of relief, for merely seconds after stepping out he noticed America staring at the crowd. “Master Jones!” England shouted loudly, hoping that he did not have to chase the younger through the crowd. Ignoring the people who hurriedly dropped into bows as they realized who he was he called desperately for America again. There really was no time for this!

America whirled around in the crowd, he didn’t see him at first, but then he caught sight of him. Waving, America squeezed through those around him to get closer. Letting out an audible sigh of relief England offered a smile to those who gathered around him. His people. “Honestly, I am just picking up a friend, there is nothing spectacular happening,” England said to a group of women who gathered around, baskets in the crook of their arm. 

“It's something different, Lord Kirkland. Will give us something new to tell our husbands at supper,” one of the women protested. 

“Ah,” England laughed. “Well, how about this one. He’s from America, my guest for the Queen’s coronation.” He smiled, noticing others now beginning to eavesdrop on his conversation. He leaned in as if to tell an important secret. “Rumor has it, he likes British ladies.” He grinned as the woman burst into excited laughter all eyes turning to America. Straightening, he gestured for America to hurry “Come now! We are already late Master Jones!”

America picked up the pace and was soon caught up, England turning sharply on his heel to lead the way back to the carriage. America could tell people were looking at him, but he just smiled at them. “Good thing your mail ships have gotten faster. I left as early as I could, but it doesn’t help when you get caught for a week with no wind. Won’t it be something when the steamships work better? You saw it in the papers right? Only 20 days to cross the ocean?”

“Stranger things have happened.” England shrugged ushering the other into the carriage with impatience. William looked as if he was about to strangle someone. England didn’t even have to tap the carriage before it lurched into motion, moving through the crowd as quickly as they could. “I have a set of clothes waiting for you in your guest chambers. I have assigned one of my own gentlemen to attend to your privy chamber during your stay. You shall need to change with haste, as we cannot be late for the coronation procession.” 

Upon arriving, America barely had time to introduce himself to the valet before he was set to washing up and then was being practically stitched into his clothes. The look in Europe had shifted to wide shoulders, tight waists, and high collars. England slid into the room and leaned against the wall, waiting. America was trying not to fidget as the cravat was being looped a few into one of the more intricate knots that had become fashionable. England stifled a laugh since the look on America’s face was that he was being fitted for the noose. Noticing his audience, he met England’s eyes in the mirror and smiled. “Do I pass?”

“You’ll do,” England said shortly. He was a bundle of nervous energy, which was too be expected. However, coming into America’s temporary chambers caused him to pause. He had chosen the right shade, a deep blue that was just a few shades darker than America’s eyes. Victoria had teased him the entire time he had looked over fabrics with his personal seamstress, stressing over just how to dress the other. The shift in men’s dress had personally been one of England’s favorites in a good while. A fitted waist for a man was pleasing, but distracting. Realizing the turn his thoughts had taken with America standing right in front of him, England cleared his throat loudly, going over his mental checklist for the day. 

What an insane day it was! Victoria had gone to the abbey the previous evening and the royal procession would proceed from there. There would be various military bands and singers that would perform throughout the procession as they rode, although England felt a twinge of concern. He hadn’t seen the secondary conductor arrive at all in the last months. Rehearsals had been a disaster and even Victoria had expressed concerns about the day going badly. He hoped that they were both wrong. 

America walked over to him and reached out to smooth England’s jacket collar where it had gotten scrunched. “What’s got you so nervous? Aren’t you used to this sort of thing?”

“What are you--” England stilled as America touched his collar “I-- thank you.” He frowned “I’ve just got a lot on my mind. It’s nothing.”

“Let’s head out then, your queen can’t get coronated without you there, right?” 

 England gave him a wry smile. “You have no idea.” he sighed.  Stepping into the hall it was like everything passed in a rush. There were even more people in the palace than normal. It took no time at all before the pair was shuffled into a carriage and headed for the abbey. England was surprised that America remained relatively silent throughout the ride. For that he was thankful, his nervousness had his stomach in knots and he was in no particular mood to chat. America’s ship arriving late in the harbor had been the icing on the cake. It was as if nothing could go right. He really needed to calm down, his mind was a mess and Victoria’s anxiety was doing nothing to help him.

***

America looked back from the view of the city to England tapping his foot against the floor of the carriage across from him. It was like someone had hooked him up to one of those experimental batteries and the charge kept sparking through him. Just like those electrical experiments, something had to break the tension. “Did I tell you? I found Colter’s Hell. When I was headed to Oregon a group of us went off. It’s true, there’s water that comes shooting right out of the ground.”

“Interesting,” England murmured. “Yes, I read about it in reports. Do continue.” He looked back at America. The nervousness in his posture and the tapping of his foot didn’t cease.

“I’m going to send out an expedition at some point, take along some artists so they can make sketches. I heard that one of France’s people is working on a machine that can capture images. That would be something.” He leaned back in the seat of the carriage. “I’m adapting a saddle design of Spain’s along with Mexico. We don’t really get along, but we have some of the same ideas. I have a feeling I’m going to have to do something about Texas, and probably California, too. Mexico thinks he can be an empire like Spain. He’s still mad about the fort I built in the Nebraska territory. Not my fault that Bent’s Fort happens to be on the trail to Santa Fe. It’s on my side of the border...” He glanced at England, trying to assess whether the distraction was working.

England made a show of listening, making small sounds of acknowledgement as he looked out the window and chewed absentmindedly at his thumb. America could just imagine the things going through his head. Were people where they were supposed to be? Did the Queen’s dress get fixed? Who was going to be held responsible when things went horribly wrong? America sighed. Well, experiment number one to get England out of worrying, wasn’t working. Time to make a second attempt. Slowly, America shifted, then reached out and poked England in the cheek. “To think the British Empire gets all flustered by a girl. Are you crowning her or getting married?” 

Flinching in surprise England glared at the other. “She's getting crowned. Or did you come all the way here without knowing a thing?” He scowled.

“Considering that you sent me an etiquette book with the invitation, I know what’s going on. When I get back home that thing will probably make a good door stop for the summer. You should stop scowling. You might scare her off and she’ll abdicate or something. Then where would you be?” 

“Victoria would not be chased off. She is a woman of great integrity and spirit,” England said sharply.

“I never said she wasn’t. I’m just saying you’re scary, a lesser nation would be jumping out of the carriage right now. You need to relax.” America wanted to reach out to him, hold him close until the line of tension in England’s jaw relaxed. It was, after all, what England would do when he was little and frustrated with something. 

Heaving a sigh, England leaned back against the seat of the carriage. “I suppose you're right...” His leg bounced. “There's just so much that could wrong with this... I'm sure you'll like her.”

Throwing proprietary to the wind, America reached out and put his hand on England’s twitching knee. He squeezed. “I’m sure I will like her. After all, the fashion plates are already all over back home. She’s certainly making those puffy sleeves on women’s dresses popular.” England still seemed lost in his worries, so America reached forward and touched his cheek. “Are you the British Empire or not?”

***

England stared down at the hand on his knee, freezing when America touched his face. He had not expected the other to touch him familiarly. With gooseflesh erupting over his legs he stared at the other, it was not common for them to have such physical relations. “I... of course, I am the British Empire!” England stuttered as the carriage lurched to a halt, they had finally made it to the abbey. Grabbing the carriage door quickly he all but hurtled from the vehicle, glad to be out of the space that suddenly seemed so small. “I just have to get inside and get Her Majesty.” England threw over his shoulder to the American, yet England found that it was unnecessary as Victoria pushed the door open, descending the steps alone to the chagrin of her ladies in waiting. 

“Arthur!” 

“Victoria.” England stopped walking, opting to stare up the steps at the young woman. He was briefly aware that America stopped at his side. England felt the blood rush to his face as he stared enraptured up the girl. “You ever met someone that you knew was going to do great things?” he breathed to America, hands settling on his stomach as his heart thumped irrationally in his chest. “Elizabeth, Charlotte, Henrietta, Catherine,” he murmured. It happened so often when a new monarch was ready to take the throne, but only on those who in the end produced great changes and advances for the nation. With brown hair pulled up in the latest fashion and dressed in her coronation garb of red finery Victoria painted an angelic picture, brown eyes dancing with excitement, tempered only by a bit of nervousness. Victoria was beautiful, inside and out, the fire inside her obvious to anyone who looked on. Stepping forward England offered his hand to the young so to be Queen who took it excitedly, before pulling him into a hug. 

“Oh! I was so worried we were gonna be late!” Victoria panicked, hugging England tightly before looking at America over his shoulder. “Arthur?”

“Ah yes.” pulling back England turned to look at America “Queen Victoria allow me to introduce my guest for your coronation. Mister Alfred Jones from America.” He gestured at the young blonde “The personified nation of America” he added. The nineteen-year-old girl burst into an even larger smile.

“Pleasure! Arthur has told me so much about you!”

America stepped forward and bowed over her hand. “Hopefully, it was only the good things. He certainly only had good things to say about you.”

England’s smiled widened as Victoria laughed, flashing him a smile. “Arthur is ever the flatterer.” She beamed. “It really is a pleasure to meet you. I haven’t met your brother yet but Arthur promises me that I soon will.” Clasping England’s hand tightly the young monarch watched as horses were hitched to several intricately designed carriages just off to the side. “So will you be riding with me?” she cast a hopeful glance at England who appeared to slump slightly in disappointment.

“I told you that I cannot. I will be riding in the carriage behind yours with Master Jones. But it's only one carriage we shall be close,” he promised. “It seems you need to get in.” England frowned as Lord Melbourne gestured impatiently from the head carriage of the procession. His frown turned into a smile as Victoria heaved a sigh and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “He is so impatient! I shall see you soon Arthur and you Mister Jones” She tossed a smile at America as she headed across the yard, ladies in waiting in tow. 

The ride through the streets was jubilant and loud. The people of England out en masse hoping they could catch a glimpse of the newest queen on her coronation day. England was still fidgeting and America hooked his fingers into the cuff of his jacket. “I don’t know what you’re so worried about, things seem to be going well,” he said, leaning over so that England could hear him over the noise.

“Thus far,” England muttered running his hands through his hair. “This is the longest procession since Charles II in 1660, so that more people can see it.” He peered out the window “it's nearly in a complete circle around Buckingham Palace.” He dropped the curtain back into place as he noted them drawing near the palace steps. “And I am not worried. I am rightfully wary.” he countered 

“Fine, wary. I hope you won’t be ‘wary’ all day.” America leaned back, turning towards the window. 

“If you're going to be an arse then maybe I should find someone else to escort you for the day.” England shot back.

America rolled his eyes. “Is this the new palace? The one that was just a manor house before, it’s huge! The hats on the guards, too.” England could tell America was trying to distract him and he allowed it, until everything started to go wrong.

***

_That evening..._

"I told him we needed a rehearsal!" England all but choked from his banquet chair. It had turned into a dreadfully botched ceremony, the longest five hours of England's current life. One hundred and fifty-seven singers had an orchestra which would have been spectacular if Conductor Smart had not tried to conduct and play the organ concurrently. It had been dreadfully embarrassing. 

Thinking back England was surprised he hadn’t had a fit when they had arrived at St. Edwards chapel for the coronation. One wouldn’t even recognize the altar, as it was now acting as a table, covered in spirits, sandwiches, and all sorts of confectionaries. When England was sure that it could not have gotten any worse Lords and Ladies began to make their way up the steps and Lord Rolle of eighty-two years attempted to ascend the steps only to fall and roll all the way down! Then the poor man had been helped to his feet and moved to try again. Bless Victoria’s heart! She got up from her throne and walked down the steps to greet him, moving in a way that suggested she was ready to grab him if he fell again. And when the Archbishop went to put Victoria’s ring on her finger England watched in horror as he put it on the wrong finger! Victoria’s wince signified what he dreaded, it was going to be painfully difficult to get it off. And then she had been wrongly informed the ceremony was over, had left and had been chased after to return to continued the event! It was now fifteen past eight and supper was being served, England clutching his third glass of wine as he relived the past five hours in his mind. He looked at America who sat at his right side. “Don’t you ever, ever tell me not to worry about the coronation ceremony of one of my monarchs ever again,” he croaked.

“It’s almost over now. I doubt anyone’s even gonna remember the hiccups,” said America, reaching for his fork when the food arrived. “Dinner, then the ball, right?” 

“You mean the whole blasted thing!” England hissed, taking offense at America’s lack of care. He had watched France and several other nations flinch during the proceedings, and sending him a mixture of horrified and apologetic looks. It took all of his power not to stab at his food viciously after it was placed in front of him. He was livid, mortified and disconcerted. “There is no ball tonight,” he said tightly. “We shall watch fireworks afterward.”

“Maybe too much ceremony is the problem.” America winced when England did stab at his plate causing the glassware to clink against the silver. “Okay, fine, the ceremony is important. Did someone decide to pinch pennies or something? You’re not broke again are you?”

Shooting America a dirty look England took a deep drink. “Remind me to never invite you to one of my coronations again. You are being a right arse and your negativity is whittling away the last of my patience,” he hissed, blinking furiously against the tears that burned his eyes, his free hand turning into a fist atop his knee beneath the table. 

***

America sat his knife down, ignoring another bit of food to slide his hand under the table and take hold of England’s fist. He could feel the tension in the lines of his hand and the little jolt of surprise. “Arthur, I know I’m not the best judge, but I know it’s going to be the talk of the newspapers back home. I know it’s not what you are used to, but maybe it’s the start of a new era, right? I mean we’ve got gas lamps and steamships. Who knows what we’ll have over the rest of the century.” 

***

Staring at America England felt himself lost for words for a brief moment. Once again the American was reaching out to touch him out of the blue. Why? Before England could read more into it the rest of the man’s words reached his ears and he responded quietly. “Alfred, I have been more than accepting and understanding of the fact that you love the rush of change that has set upon the world. But I ask that you return it and respect the fact that not everyone, I included, has no desire to watch tradition burn.”

Shifting away from him and going back to his food, America sighed. “Why did you invite me?”

This time England sighed, “Because I wanted to show you something that was very important to me.” He watched the wine in his glass as he swirled it around, hesitant to continue. He was going to sound like France if he wasn't careful! He was terrible at admitting things of this nature, his face turning red as he stuttered, “I-I wanted to share it with you.”

“And while you were too busy worrying about how there weren’t enough candles or that things weren’t quite in the right place, you didn’t even notice how grand I think it all is. I’m going to have to work hard to top something like this. It’s all splendid. What’s that word you like now... flash?” 

England scowled. “You act as if I didn't enjoy it. That is a falsehood. I just wanted things good for Victoria.” He shook his head turning back to his food. “Just forget it.”

***

“Fine, be contrary.” America decided to just focus on the food. It was only another course or so before dessert. He glanced up at the table at the young queen. She seemed to be having a pleasant time, despite the fact that her nation was still scowling into his wine glass while proclaiming that he was enjoying himself.

***

“Arthur, you are coming to the fireworks, right?” England turned from showing America a set of maps France had brought with him to see Victoria entering the small side room in a flurry of skirts. 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” England nodded as the young brunette reached him, clasping his hands with hers.

“Oh come now! You promised!”

“But Your Majesty Alexandria Victoria-”

“Arthur!”

“All right, all right.” England laughed.

“Good! I have had the most wonderful of days and I don't want to have to miss the fireworks by lecturing you. Plus, Lord Melbourne is looking for you in the hall,” Victoria admitted sheepishly.

“That man,” England muttered before smiling and pressed a kiss to the young Queen's forehead. “I shall be back momentarily. Jones do keep her company for a brief moment while I see what the Prime Minister wants.” England sighed casting a warning glance at America before exiting the room. Victoria turned towards him with a peculiar expression on her face.

America looked back at her and smiled. “It was an exciting day, ma’am.”

“It's Your Majesty Queen Victoria,” she corrected. “Please do not be so familiar with me Mister Jones. I reserve that only for those I am closest too.” She gave him a small smile, peering at the maps on the table she continued. “I would like to thank you, for keeping Arthur calm during supper. He looked so worn out I thought he was going to leave from feeling ill.” She looked up at him. “You are very important to him you know.”

“I’m glad he appeared calm from where you were sitting. I thought I was going to have to make him leave,” replied America, adding quietly, “He’s important to me, too.” 

“Good,” she responded, straightening. “I pushed to have him take on a different nation as his private guest, one that I had already become acquainted with. Master Bonnefoy and his tempered flirtations, Master Antonio and his talent for music, Master Vicente and his good humor, Master Gilbert and his heroic tales of the Teutonic knights... I could go on.” She shrugged. “But he was very insistent that it be you. He talks about you so very often, one would think you are the best of friends. I found myself pleasantly surprised, considering I have my own fair bit of schooling in political relations of the past  between my nation and America.”

America couldn’t help but feel pride swell in his chest. England had chosen him, above all of the others to accompany him. “We don’t always get along, but I think we understand each other. I’d like to be better friends.”

“Mn,” was all Victoria offered in response, running her fingers over the map edges as she walked forward towards him. Standing before him she extended her hand. “I shall ignore the fact that you did not bow when I entered the room. You are from the colonies, so I shall forgive it this time. But Arthur has informed me that you were given a book of etiquette before your arrival. So let's not be rude anymore, shall we? It distresses Arthur as he holds it very dear to his heart.” She sized up the tall blonde as the door opened, England re-entering the room. 

“Victoria, Alfred, we must head out.”

America followed after him, not bothering to acknowledge the admonishment. It was probably just ambition if she thought she was going to get the United States of America to bow every time he saw her. Nope, not happening. They may be trading partners and wrapped up in each other’s industry, but he wasn’t a colony. He opened his mouth to bring it up to England, but the other was still showing signs of strain. It could wait, not forever, but for now, it could wait. He walked at his side as they went down the hallway.

***

Speaking quietly with Victoria as America and he escorted her to the front England frowned as his young monarch stole more than one worried glance at America. “Did he offend you or something, Victoria?”

“Oh no!” she whispered, turning red. “I think I offended him.”

“How so?” England frowned, brow furrowing. 

“I-I asked him to address me properly and he ignored it. I just expected that since the other nations--”

“Victoria.” England held up his hand. “You have done nothing wrong,” he assured her as they walked the steps the steps to her carriage “do not worry about it” he said again as she got inside. Closing the door he waited silently for their carriage to be brought around.

“What?” asked America when he caught England watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you think I bowed before the Kings of France because they were my sovereign rulers?” His expression was unreadable.

“Weren’t they at one point? And do we have to have this conversation? It’s different for me with your rulers and you know it. And for the record, I don’t bow and scrape at any monarch’s feet.” England opened his mouth to say something else, but America starting speaking again before he had the chance. “I know you think it’s quaint, maybe even funny, to refer to me as a colony, but it bothers me.”

“When have I, personally, referred to you as a colony since your- your-?” England said, tightly, unable to finish the sentence. “And you are completely missing the point. I bowed before Francis’ King, because I respect France idiot that he is.” England frowned “Therefore I show respect to his nation's leaders as their culture dictates. Do I swear fealty? No. But it is a show of respect to the nation themselves! Their people and their history. It's respect for what they as a nation, as a person, finds important! What they respect and what they believe! In letters and documents, I have always referred to your leaders by their proper titles because I am respecting your culture, no matter how new or odd I find it. I am doing it as a show of respect to you! If your people decide that bowing or something else is to be done for your leaders than while I am a guest in your home then I shall do as such because I ask respecting your culture and you as a person!”

***

_You’re missing the point, too_ , America thought as the carriage rolled up. He didn’t even wait for the footman to get the door. He climbed inside, not speaking again until the door closed behind England. “If you’re trying to make me feel provincial, congratulations you’ve succeeded. Now let’s just go see the fireworks.”

“Provincial!?” England stared at the other before a look of resignation settled over his features. “I am sorry you feel that way...but do not worry.” Crossing his arms he stared at the window “I will never trouble you with an invite to the United Kingdom ever again.”

“I didn’t say it was trouble,” said America, looking at him. “Apparently, I can’t possibly have enjoyed the day since you think it was a disaster and if I hold to my principles I’m the disaster. You’re not... listening.” The last bit of the sentence tumbled out of his mouth and he wished he could take it back. Things had been better, and now it was the same problem all over again. England was being England. If only he could stop loving him. _If it was that easy do you think I would be infatuated with France?_ America smiled to himself, remembering Canada’s words. No, it wasn’t easy at all.

“Not listening!?” England shouted lurching to his feet only to swear loudly when he slammed his head into the roof of the carriage. Clutching at his head, his eyes watered as he glared at America. “I fucking heard you!!! You said that you thought it was splendid and I did not tell you otherwise! I merely expressed that I has been disappointed in it! And I did not ask you to change your blasted principals! I merely asked you to respect mine! For fuck’s sake, Alfred! I asked you as a fucking favor! I expressed my fucking concerns... which if you were truly someone who cared you would not have brushed them off like they did not matter!” His fist slammed into the carriage wall. “I have listened and respected your decisions! The Monroe Doctrine I have wholly supported! Your change in government style I supported! Your fight over Texas I supported and tried to give advice! I spoke with Antonio behind closed doors when you asked for help over East Florida! I have calmed down a rightfully furious Matthew when you have pissed him off to no end because I knew you did not have the time to deal with it! I have supported you and your delicate principals at every turn I was able! And all I ask is that you be polite to my Queen whilst in my country! I’m sorry for asking that you respect my principals!” Chest heaving England stared wildly at the adjacent blonde. Pale face a bright red and fists trembling, he tried to calm down.

America stared at him, brow furrowing. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. “Do you feel better now? I didn’t disrespect her! I greeted her properly when we first met, but... do you really not get it Arthur? We can’t do... our friendship or whatever it is if we’re not equals. I’m dealing with the others, what do you care if they wipe me off the map!?” 

“You think me asking you to respect my culture and customs while you visit is me saying we are not equal!?”

“That’s not... damn it England, do you really not understand that it’s hard for me to admire the pomp and circumstance of all this when her grandfather... If things had been different she would be my queen, too. But she’s not. I’m...” The emotion at the back of his throat caught him by surprise. He covered his face with one hand. “I’m... I don’t know how to do this. I’m happy for you... but... I don’t know...”

“Don't know what?” England frowned, leaning back in his seat. “I can't help if you don't know what you’re confused about.”

America let his hand fall from his face. “I should hate you, but I don’t. I’m not supposed to be here right now. President Van Buren told me I shouldn’t, that things are... well, I’ve got a lot of problems...” America cleared his throat. “Really, you should hate me, but made me your honored guest at something you obviously care a great deal about. What does that make us? What am I to you? That’s what I don’t know.”

***

“W-what. What we are we?” England's mind whirled. That had never occurred to him, to assign a label to their relationship. What indeed were they? England had been so focused on merely getting along, just on healing from the others insurgency. He swallowed. “I don't know,” he admitted 

The corner of America’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “At least I’m not the only one. I was... am... really happy that you invited me.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush of air. “Ha! Well, after that maybe the fireworks will be soothing, huh?”

The tension in England's shoulders lessened and he nodded. “I am not sure soothing is the word I would use, but distracting is a tad closer,” he admitted, as the carriage pulled to a stop. “Shall we?”

America walked with him to join the rest of the royal party to watch the fireworks. Green Park actually smelled earthy, in contrast to the stone and industrial smells of the rest of the city. There were trees and greenery that some parts of the city decidedly lacked. He felt calmer here. For a brief moment, he paused along the pathway, taking in the scene. England walked forward to escort his queen, leaving America at the rear of the small procession. From Victoria’s side he could hear America chat with someone else, the accent striking him in the midst of his own new accent that the aristocracy was affecting. _We sound even more different now._  

“Are you just going to hang back all evening?” England frowned. Noticing America had stopped walking, the procession proceeding without him. England jogged back down the hill to see what was going on. “Have you taken ill?”

“No, I was just admiring the park. It’s nice.” He started to walk in the direction of the rest of the party.

“I was actually planning to sit a bit more privately if you wanted to join me,” England announced, slender fingers curling around America's wrist as he stopped the man. America paused and looked at him. He nodded and let England pull him away.

Stopping on the crest of a small hill England dropped America's wrist and sat down swiftly on the grass, looking pointedly at the space next to him. When America finally sat down England stared stubbornly at the sky. “I was told they will go on for hours.”

“Really?” America asked leaning back on his hands and looking up at the sky as the first bangs of the firework show began. The colors flashed across his face, drawing a smile out for the display.

“‘Till around four in the morning, I think.” England sighed, hiding a yawn as he brought his knees to his chest, propping his chin on them. He hadn't even gone to bed last night, there had been so many preparations. And now sitting down with a full belly and several cups of wine buzzing through his system he was more than ready to fall asleep.

“I guess I might as well get comfortable then,” said America, leaning back so he could stretch out on the grass. He had to shift around a bit in order to get comfortable in the tight-fitting clothes, but he managed it.

“Brilliant deduction,” England drawled staring up at the flashing colors in the sky. He wasn't sure how long it took but slowly and surely his posture suffered until he lay sprawled across the grass next to America. “When are you leaving again?” he mumbled blinking tiredly. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

“Probably with the next shipment of cotton cloth. They’re probably turning all of my houses upside down right now to find out where I’ve gone. Why?”

England blinked quickly, processing what America had just said. Jerking his head to the side he looked at him, eyes wide in horror. “What do you mean looking for you? They know you are here correct?!”

“The people who need to know do.” America yawned. 

England relaxed, melting against the ground. “All right, that was not as bad as you made it sound. Goodness, the night gets chilly.”

“You can come closer, I’m plenty warm.”

“But that requires moving, which requires energy which I am not willing to expend any more of my depleted reserves.” England yawned.

“Yet, you have the energy to complain about it being cold.” Shifting on the grass, America slid over towards him. “Come here.” He slid his arm under England and pulled him to his side.

“Hey! What's with the manhandling!” England protested, pushing at America's hands. The boy _was_ warm though. Scowling, England glared up at him as he was smushed against the other's side. “This is undignified and our clothes are going to be wrinkled!”

“We’re already wrinkled from being in the grass. Stop fussing.” 

“I'll fuss as much as I damn well please,” England muttered. He didn’t want to admit it, but this was a far more comfortable arrangement than just laying on the cold ground. Maybe closing his eyes for a moment wouldn't hurt. With a yawn England allowed his eyes to slid shut. 

***

In the space between the fireworks, America could feel England relaxing against him and his breathing evening out into sleep. America adjusted him, fitting him against his side more comfortably. He was so aware of England’s body pressed against his that it was as if the fireworks pressed against his skin as well.

“I don't ever think I've ever seen him asleep.” Victoria's voice broke the calm surrounding the pair after a long while.

America nearly jumped, looking up at the young woman as she stood above them. Carefully, he extricated himself from beneath England’s body, keeping him close, but settling him on the grass. England’s arm still lay across his waist. Clearing his throat, and grateful for the darkness to hide his blush. “I haven’t seen him sleep in a long while either.” Absentmindedly, America brushed England’s hair off his forehead.

“I'm glad though. That he's comfortable enough with you to let his guard down and sleep. He needs it. He has been stressing over my coronation for so long he hasn't been sleeping well for months.” She sighed.

“I’ll keep him safe, you don’t have to worry.”

“That's good,” Victoria said softly staring down at England. “I-” she shook her head “I am glad that you two were able to settle your differences.”

“I’m not sure they’re settled, just... we can look past them, Your Majesty.”

Victoria’s eyes widened. “I am surprised to hear you calling me that.”

“It’s for him, not for you,” America said, looking down at England. 

A knowing smile spread across her features. “And I couldn't ask for more... we do things for those we love, no?”

America blushed. Trying to think of something to say. “I...” In the end, he just nodded. 

Clapping her hands together, Victoria let out a small squeal, slapping her hands over her mouth in embarrassment as England shifted in his sleep. Holding her breath until it was blatant that England was still asleep she laughed quietly. “I was right! I was watching you two at the banquet and was so certain!” she whispered excitedly, brown eyes sparkling. “Good. I wouldn't be surprised if-- no...I'll leave it there.” She smiled mischievously. “Those were private talks, and I just wanted to let you know we are heading in now as the fireworks are ending. I trust I can leave him in your hands.” She winked, whirling around in a rustle of skirts she headed back towards her ladies in waiting.

America stared after her, wondering what she meant. Surprised if... what? He reached down to shake England lightly on the shoulder. “It’s time to go back.”

***

Warm and comfortable. That was the best way to describe his current situation, even with someone shaking his shoulder. Honestly, England couldn't remember the last night that he had received a good night's sleep. Then everything that had gone wrong during the ceremony and then the fight with America had been the final straw. Trudging up the hill for the fireworks had nearly done him in. It was a different kind of tired from the tired that had plagued him the last century. England wasn't tired, but rather Arthur Kirkland was tired. 

He had been positive that everything was going to calm down once the coronation was complete, but then America had to go and ask that question. He had to pry and try to put a label on them. A question that England himself had been trying to figure out for months ahead yet to come up with an answer. What indeed were they? It had come to mind more than once while England was writing his letters back to the new nation. It was confusing. They had far too much history to just simply be friends. The awkward interactions and the rather inappropriate and scandalous dreams that frequented England's nights just added to the confusion. “What?” he sighed, refusing to open his eyes till the last moment.

***

“It’s time to go back to the palace.” Laying back down so they were once again side by side. America watched his face, mostly smooth with sleepiness, but just the beginning of a furrow to form between his eyebrows as he woke up. Before he thought better of it, America pressed gently against that point, trying to smooth the lines.

With a start England opened his eyes, staring in shock at the other. They were so close, if either of them moved a smudge closer their noses would touch. “What...?”

It would be so easy, to just lean forward, to show England how he felt about him. Then why couldn’t he do it? His heart hammered against his ribs. He was so close! Mouth feeling suddenly dry, America licked his lips. “I said, it’s time to go back. The fireworks are over.”

“Oh,” England murmured, eyes closing again as he heaved a large sigh. “So, not something terribly important.”

“You’ll be more comfortable in bed.” 

“Yes.” He sighed. “But Francis is here... and so is Vicente so I highly doubt it's empty.” He groaned, rolling on his back.

Propping up on an elbow, America looked down at him, the fluttery feeling he’d just had fading away with the unwelcome information. “Tell them to leave.”

“It's just so much effort. They put up such a fuss.” He rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I'm too tired and have definitely not had enough alcohol for this.”

_I’ll bet they do_ , America thought. Jealousy curled in his stomach. “Then don’t go back to your bed, come to mine.”

Yanking his hands away from his face, he stared at the other in shock. “Alfred... is... did... did you... is that a proposition?!”

America made a face. He realized how it sounded, but it had been the furthest from his mind in that moment when he’d posed the question. “Think about it, they won’t look for you there. You’d be able to sleep.”

“Oh.” England exhaled. “Ah yes, that makes sense….thank you.” he nodded staring up at the stairs that would soon be gone. Looking back at America he gave a small smile. The question England had asked whirled over and over. _What if I had said that it was?_  

***

England drifted off in the carriage on the way back to the castle, leaning on America’s shoulder. Upon arriving at the palace, America followed him through the halls back towards the guest quarters he’d been given. He’d been in a rush in the dressing room that very morning and hadn’t taken in much of the rest of the suite. By the time he’d taken in the fine furniture and the fresh coat of paint on the walls, England had already dropped onto his back on the bed. America’s fingers tangled in his own cravat, pulling the fabric from his throat. The buttons were going to be a challenge. It was always hard to get out of this style of clothes on his own. “You can’t sleep like that. Do you want me to call for a valet?”

“I can sleep like this if I please,” England argued running his hands through his hair with a yawn. With ease he undid his cravat and popped the buttons open, shimmying out of his jacket and undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, managing all of it without getting up. Looking up, he watched America struggle before motioning for the other to come over. “I’ll help you.”

“Why do they always cut these things to fit so tight?” He turned around so that England could get hold of his jacket.

“So that we have something nice to look at during diplomatic meetings.” England grinned before pausing. “Do forget that I just said that.”

America didn’t say anything as England helped him out of his jacket, trying not to enjoy too much the sensation of England’s fingers against his shirt. His cheeks warmed at England’s words, did he mean them? Did he...? No, it wasn’t possible. “It is a handsome style. Although I can’t be too fond of it when it requires a second person to get on and off without ripping a stitch.” 

“I believe that’s the point.” England cleared his throat. “Anyway, I've worn more difficult. At least we aren't women. You think this is bad... the amount of time it took Victoria to get in that gown. With five chambermaids.”

“That’s true,” replied America, losing his train of thought after he’d turned around and England had absentmindedly started on the buttons of his waistcoat. _He’s just acting the part of valet_ , he repeated to himself, over and over, trying to keep his imagination under control.

“But there is just something about a man in finely tailored and fashionable clothes,” England commented lightly, sliding America's vest off his shoulders and making quick work of the buttons at the nape of America's neck. Nimble fingers popped buttons free with ease. England’s pace faltered as he exposed America's chest and stared at the scar over America’s heart. Tentatively, he touched the raised skin.

America pressed his hand against England’s, trapping it between his palm and his chest. Emotions chased each other, around and around. “It’s...” Not nothing, he couldn’t possibly say that. The day Washington had burned had been one of the worst in his short existence. England had done that to him. America could see in his expression that he had guessed what had caused the scar. “I... maybe I should... let you get some sleep.”

“I can't do that if you don't let my hand go,” England said quietly 

“Right.” He let him go, taking a step back and out of reach. “I... you can stay here... I can sleep on the daybed.”

“Rubbish.” England scowled. “That thing is terribly uncomfortable.” He hid a yawn behind his hands. “And this bed is more than big enough for the two of us. It's not like we haven't shared one before.”

America wasn’t sure, but he nodded. “All right, do you want a nightshirt? I have to change out of this thing, the starch would drive me mad all night.” He gestured to the collar of his shirt and turned away before England could see how flustered he felt. He walked over to the wardrobe and was grateful that his clothes had arrived at some point during the day. Tugging his shirt over his head, he found the long linen shirt easily, pulling it on. That helped, although the tight, tailored trousers were another story. They wouldn’t be comfortable, but he wasn’t entirely confident that he could wriggle out of them on his own, or if that was even a particularly good idea. He flushed, grateful that England had started putting out the lamps, the shadows hiding the color on his cheeks.

“I didn't even think about that.” England paused. “If you have an extra I would certainly appreciate it.”

America nodded, pulling the second shirt from the shelf and bringing it over to him. Walking around to the other side of the bed he pulled back the sheets and got in, laying back against the pillows. They were far more comfortable than he’d given them credit for upon first glance.

“You are going to sleep in your trousers? Are you cold? I call for more blankets.” England frowned pulling off his shirt and replacing it with the nightshirt before making quick work of his own trousers 

“Well... I mean, you picked them out so you know how they fit. I always feel like I’m going to rip this style trying to get them off. It’s why I don’t usually wear them. It’s late, I don’t want to call a servant.” America idly wondered if it was possible to faint from blushing.

“Then just take them off carefully.” England crossed his arms “Or do you need help?”

America buried his face in the pillow for a second. He could handle this, although the idea of England’s hands anywhere near his trousers made his mind go places it shouldn’t. _England doesn’t think of you that way, right? He’s made that clear._ He pushed up from the bed and worked on the buttons. It was easy enough to get them over his hips, it was always the tight fabric that tended to bunch up and then get trapped around his thigh. He could hear England on the other side of the bed shifting around behind him. Swearing quietly at the clothes, he struggled with them until his legs were free. He settled down onto his pillow and they bid each other good night.

***

America shifted, his cheek brushing against something soft. For a moment, he blinked up at the top of the canopy bed, eyes tracing the swirls of embroidery. Senses came back to him realizing that the softness was England’s hair pressed up under his chin, his arm thrown across his chest. He was afraid to move, not wanting to break the moment of loose-limbed comfort wrapped up in England’s arms. 

England stirred, yawning and snuggling closer. He was so warm! As England pressed closer to him, America shifted just enough to press his nose into England’s hair. It wasn’t like that morning in New Orleans. They weren’t at war, England wasn’t injured, they were... safe he supposed. Without thinking he touched the back of England’s nightshirt, feeling how solid he was. No, it wasn’t a dream.

***

England blinked slowly as he tried to gather himself and figure out his surroundings. Stretching with a groan of satisfaction he popped his back with an arch, toes uncurling. “I'm starving.” He yawned. It was like a delay occurred in his synapses. There was someone in the bed with him, that was not abnormal, but it was the fact that he didn't remember going to bed with anyone he normally did.

“Do you think it’s too late to call for breakfast?”  

England felt every muscle in his body tense. Shit, it was America. Right, he had hidden in the guest room. “I highly doubt it. I heard Victoria had no plans to be up before noon,” he said carefully. This was okay, right? He had slept with America like this several times when the other was a little boy. It didn't mean anything.

“I guess I should ring for a servant then. Since it’s my room.” England realized he was laying half on top of America’s chest, preventing his ability to get up.

“I can do it,” England argued, getting up and all but running to the rope on the wall. He felt nearly naked in his nightshirt. England sighed, he wouldn't be able to pull it simply once to request food. He would have to pull it twice so that someone came to the room to see what he needed. And then Arthur would have to tell them that they needed two breakfasts brought up. Reaching up he yanked on it twice before yawning and running his hands through his hair. He really could use a cuppa.

***

America sat up, pulling the blankets up and wrapping his arms around his knees. England was standing by the bell pull in his shirt. He hid his smile against his knees as he watched England puzzle over something in the overlarge shirt. America slid off the other side of the bed, his feet meeting the cool floor. “It sure is cold in here.” Shivering slightly, he walked over to the wardrobe and tried to pick out something to wear. He’d offer to loan England something, but he was much broader in the shoulder and it would probably hang off his thin frame similar to the nightshirt.

“Because no one came to light the fire yet. The entire castle was up late.” England commented, turning to look at America. Frowning he added, “One of my gentlemen should be in here to help you soon.”

“I don’t have to be fancy again until dinner, right?” America asked, pulling out much plainer clothing than he’d been wearing last night.

“Well... yes... and I wasn't planning to show you the zoo or the gallery until tomorrow... I was planning to stay in the palace all day.” 

America carried his pile of clothes over to the wash basin, tipping the porcelain pitcher so that he could look inside. Water sloshed and he tipped it into the bowl. He started washing his face. “It sounds great. I look forward to it.”

“The zoo is fantastic.” England smiled, dropping into a chair.  “I am certain you will love it”

“I love animals, but you know that.” He stepped behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room, pulling his nightshirt over his head and laying it on the top. It wasn’t quite tall enough to cover his shoulders, so he studiously kept his back to England. He began pulling on his clean clothes. 

“I guess getting dressed in something I should do as well. Perhaps we should take our meals separately as to get everything taken care of faster.”

“You said you weren’t planning on leaving the palace today. What were you planning to do?”

“Ah…” England cleared his throat “Unwind…”

“Oh.” America stepped out from behind the screen, waistcoat still hanging open. He walked back to the wardrobe to search for a few fastenings that he’d forgotten. “How do you plan to ‘unwind’?”

England gave him long look, as though debating whether or not he should include him in whatever his plan was. “How about you eat breakfast and then I'll show you?”

***

_England’s Rooms_

“Lord Kirkland you have a guest.” The steady rap of one of his gentleman broke England’s lazy concentration as he absentmindedly flipped through a book. He hadn’t even bothered to get dressed, exchanging America’s nightshirt for his favorite red colored robe. He wasn’t even sure if he had eaten breakfast, but the empty kettle at his right elbow informed him that he had at least had his morning tea. It had taken no time at all before he was stretched languidly over his settee, drapes drawn tightly closed while he loosened his robe, the room hot and filled with smoke.  Rolling the pipe between his finger he cast a glance at the opium lamp before saying to the door. 

“I said no guests.” 

“It’s Master Jones,” the voice said. “He insists you informed him to meet you here.”

“That's right.” England kicked his feet lazily as he nudged the book onto the floor, rolling over to sprawl lazily on his back. “Send him in, then.” He draped a leg over the back of the brown colored settee. “And bring food, no sweets” he ordered, staring at the decorative ceiling. The air in the room was choked with opium smoke, which smelled highly similar to that of a dried poppy flower. He was far past the first ten minutes into the lamp so the disorienting feeling was gone, now it was just the high left over.

America walked into the room, taking a single breath and coughing. He waved at the cloud of smoke. “England? What are you doing? What is this stuff?” He coughed again.

“Its called opium.” England smiled, sticking the pipe back in his mouth and taking a deep breath before continuing, smoke spewing out like a dragon from of a fairy tale. “We got the idea after we lost the tobacco trade from the colonies, Vicente got involved and so did Yao, the personification of the nation of China.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Although Yao is having some scruples at the moment, he will learn better. We will certainly end in war soon if he doesn't. Then he will learn.” he motioned or America to come to the settee. “Come sit, come sit, I can move.”

America came over and sat down, looking a little dizzy. “It doesn’t... seem anything like tobacco... wait, isn’t this the stuff that’s in laudanum?” 

“Well, yes, but it's different when it’s smoked.” He lowered his leg off the back of the couch, dropping his foot in America's lap, his robe riding up more. Extending his arm he offered America the pipe. “Try it.”

***

Not really sure if he was doing it right, America took a deep breath. He’d smoked tobacco plenty of times, but this tasted and felt different. Passing it back, he leaned back against the cushions. “My head feels odd.”

“You'll be disoriented for the next few minutes then all will be good.” England grinned. Drawing his knees up beneath him to kneel next to the other blond as servants brought in trays of food and drink, leaving with no acknowledgment. England leaned forward and plucked some of the food off the plate. America was distracted by England’s movements, but it was almost like he couldn’t quite focus on him. The robe that he was wearing contrasted sharply with his skin. He touched the collar, feeling that it grounded him just a little.

Shoving a piece of bread in his mouth England looked back at America's hand, “Yes?”

“I... this is soft.” His words slurred a bit, surprising him. 

“That's why I'm wearing it.” England leaned back against the couch. “So?” he smiled “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been drinking too much whiskey... but at the same time? It’s not like that at all.”

***

England chuckled. “Right? It's so comfortable.” Flopping back against back of the couch, he slid along the slick fabric before slumping into America's side. Time was irrelevant and England was quite happy to let it pass along on its own. He wasn't sure how much time was passing them by as the passed the pipe back and forth every so often. It could have been hours or even days.

***

America wasn’t sure when it happened, only that he’d been sitting upright at some point and now he was sprawled out on the arm of the settee. His fingers played with something soft, right, it was England’s red, silk robe. Beneath it, he was warm, better than a blanket as he had stretched out on top of America. England’s fingers were warm on his wrist and against his palm. When had he uncuffed his shirt sleeves? “What time is it?”

England shrugged. “Not a clue, lad.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter?” mused America, closing his eyes and feeling boneless. Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers up England’s back and tangled them in his hair. It was something he never dared do before, but he couldn’t stop it. He didn’t want to stop.

England paused, eyes sliding shut. “You are touchy,” he commented lightly, leaning into America's personal space.

“I like touching you,” he said, not thinking about the words at all. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I did not say that at all” England shook his head hands resting on America's thighs as he kneeled over the other, eyes opening to peer down at the blond lazily. A small smile lightened his features. “You certainly have grown into a fine young man.” he tilted his head to the side, his lazy smile growing larger. 

America looked up at him, maybe the drugs had simply put him into a dream. Did he fall asleep? After all, England couldn’t be leaning over him so close that he could pull him even closer and kiss him like he’d always wanted to do. It must be a dream. In that case, there was no reason not to do what he wanted. 

The haze from the smoke seemed to swell around them, cupping them in an opium smelling caress. That mixing with the warmth from the fireplace and the few scattered candles added to the heat that America felt. It was as if the room itself waited on a precipice with anticipation. Emerald eyes peered into ocean blue, shoulders slumping as he leaned over him in a languorous manner as if he too agreed with the room. Even now, with the perfect setting and England being so inviting and close America felt his mouth go dry. Swallowing and wetting his lips America took great pleasure as he noticed England seemed to watch his actions, fixated like a cat watching a mouse. It would be so simple, so natural.  

He lay his hand on the back of England’s neck, fingers curling into the blond hair at his nape, damp with sweat and leaned up, pressing his lips against England’s. England’s lips were slightly dry, but they felt good sliding against his own. England gave a little sharp intake of breath, the air sliding across America’s face as he responded instantaneously. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you are enjoying our story leave a kudo or a comment! We love to hear from you!


	11. Lust Induced Affections?

England didn't have to even think about his response, it just was. Thin, naked thighs straddled covered ones, bodies pressing flush against each other. Pale fingers knotted themselves into wheat colored hair in time with a groan of approval slowly transforming into a whimper of need. It was like the beginning to every risqué dream he had America, the two of them tangled together on some piece of furniture, snogging like a pair of teenagers in some back alley. The younger’s pliant physique pressing up into his so willingly. Returning the favor, England draped himself like form fitting clothes against America, desperate to feel the other's naked skin against his own. Hot breaths mixed with the thick smoke curling around their limbs and seeping into their clothes. Tongue darting out England coaxed America's mouth open persistently. 

***

The taste of the smoke on England’s tongue seemed to intoxicate him further. This dream felt wonderful, more than his imagination had ever offered up before. Lungs burning, America wanted to keep him close, learning from the motions that sent sparks racing down his spine. He kissed England back, twining their tongues together until he earned a groan from England. He kept a tight hold on the back of England’s head, afraid that any moment the dream would shift, that England would pull away and the warmth and press of him would be gone. 

America wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping their bodies together. The silken fabric of England’s robe was slick beneath his fingers, falling loosely back when he pulled at it, desperate to keep the warmth close. Finally, his lungs cried for air and he had to release him. His breaths came shaky as England didn’t seem to pause. His fingers were at America’s throat, brushing over his Adam’s apple as they tangled in his cravat. His breath was warm against America’s ear as he whispered, “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” America breathed. Breath catching as England nipped at the skin right below his ear, soothing the sting with his lips and tongue. He felt like the world was spinning and he held onto England, fingers meeting the bare skin of his legs where the robe had shifted. Fascinated by the feel of him, America ran his hand down the length of England’s thigh, feeling the warmth of the crook of his knee as he pulled him even closer.

***

Tugging at America's collar experienced fingers made quick work of his cravat, practically snapping the top buttons of his shirt open as greedy fingers made their way to the skin of America's collar bone. Calloused fingertips slid across unblemished skin, working their way down his chest, unbuttoning the fabric obstacle as required. Mouth pulling away from America’s, dry lips made their way along his jawline, teeth connecting with the tan skin of America's neck. As moans erupted from the flaxen haired male England pulled his attention from his neck to capture his lips once again, miserly swallowing his noises. Slipping his tongue into America's mouth, one hand left its adventuring to tangle his fingers in America’s hair, tugging his head back. Slumping to the side, England pulled America along with him, pleased when the other's body draped over his. 

Everything became broken up after that, like he was falling in and out of consciousness. Large hands gripping at his hips in a bruising manner only to thread through his hair and back again. Americas hands, rough from adventuring rubbed over the skin that England’s robe did nothing to hide, leaving England to clutch desperately at America's clothes with an arch in his back as the younger pressed him into the settee. England’s cry split the dusky air as America's teeth sank into his pulse before moving on to bite just below his jaw. America learned quickly and England relented to the younger’s unnatural strength, taking is feverish opened mouth kisses excitedly. As the opium continued to pulsate through their veins, images and touches blurred together into pitch. 

***

America’s arm had fallen asleep, creating little sparks of pain shooting up and down. He shifted, trying to pull it out from under whatever was on top of it. He blinked, it was England, one arm out of the robe baring one side of his chest and shoulder. America pressed his face into the crook of England’s neck, kissing the skin there, running his nose against his collarbone. England smelled different like this, his sweat having a sweetness to it that America had never noticed before. He could taste the salt from his skin on his tongue. This dream certainly was a good one. 

His arm throbbed again. Wait, why would his arm hurt in a dream? He paused, realizing the tight hold he had on a half-naked England that suddenly felt all too real. No, it wasn’t possible. England was a solid warm weight at his side, his leg thrown over America’s hip. The smell of England’s skin was more intense than any old memory. He recognized it now, that cologne that England had taken to wearing more recently, a spice of some kind. The smell from the paper of his letters. 

No, it had to be a side effect of the drug. This couldn’t really be England.

***

England watched the embers in the fireplace blinking slowly as America froze beside him. Everything had been feverish, his body having felt like it was on fire as America mapped out his body as if it was more new territory. All of it had escalated until they had passed out in a peak. At the moment his memories were patching themselves together, yet England remembered enough. If America had come to the same conclusion, then it had to be true. He glanced at the opium lamp. “It is rather potent... you become comfortable with so many things,” he said quietly.

***

Heart leaping into his throat, America pulled his arm out from beneath England’s body, feeling the slide of his thigh on his hip. America was afraid to look at him. Was he disgusted? Horror flooded America’s chest. England had to know now the way he felt about him now, the things he’d been hoping for for nearly the last hundred years. Flashes of the afternoon swirled through his mind. Had he said anything? Was England bored with his inexperience? Worse, would he never want to be alone with him again? America sat up, head swimming, still not looking at him. 

England’s leg was still thrown over his lap from their position on the settee. He blushed furiously at the length of skin on display knowing he’d had his hand on that pale skin more than once. “I should go.”

Sitting up, England straightened his clothes and said smoothly, “Well, yes, you'll need to get changed for supper and I'll need to actually dress.” He looked at America. “I'm famished so I am certain you are.”

As if waiting for its moment, his stomach growled loudly. If England could act nonchalant about what just happened, so could he. “I’ll see you at supper then.” He stood up, straightening his clothes and trying to find his cravat for a moment before giving it up.

He hurried from the room, hoping he wouldn’t run into anyone who would stop him.

***

England stared at the door as America all but slammed the door behind him. He couldn't believe that that had really happened. Reaching up, he touched the tell tale sting on his neck. Alfred had bitten him, more than once and running his fingers over his skin he confirmed that it was in multiple places. Cheeks heating, England clutched his robe tightly. All of that had really happened! Between him and America! The kisses and the hands. America had been more than receptive. 

He needed a drink! 

Practically leaping to his feet, England rushed over to the liquor cabinet on the far side of of room. Brandy or whiskey, anything would do really. 

Yanking open the doors, he grabbed the neck of the first bottle he touched and yanked out the stopper, the liquor burning a trail down his throat mere moments after it touched his lips. Lips that had just hours if not minutes ago had been pressed against America's, tongue sliding against tongue. Practically rutting against in each other like animals in heat. A rush of heat slid down England's spine to curl in his belly and it had nothing to do with the scotch. 

“Shit...” he whispered. “What now?” Shoving the liquor back into the cabinet he slammed the doors shut, raking his hands through his hair as he took note of the disarray his lounge was in. Looking at the pillows scattered around the floor, red fabric matching the carpet. However, a flash of white caught his eye. There was no white in his choice of decorations of his lounge. Walking forward he bent over, slightly woozy with the aftereffects of the opium he picked it off the floor. It was a cravat, England felt his cheeks heat when he realized that it was America’s. 

That small piece of fabric brought memories to the forefront of his mind and England was mortified. He had practically torn Americas clothes from his body, would have ravished him if he’d had enough mind to do so. Using the cravat to hide his face, England inhaled deeply, shuddering as the scent on the cloth was starkly independent from that of the sickly sweet scent of the opium. “Shit, Shit.” Crouching down England gripped his hair, swallowing. “Dammit!” The mortification continued as he realized his previous problem was once again present. “I need a bucket of cold water,” he hissed.

***

Later that evening...

The cold bath had cleared his head and cooled down his body, but it did nothing to banish the very recent memory of England wrapped around him, the taste of his skin, the feeling of his body under his hands. It was so distracting that he could barely remember which fork to use at the dinner. He’d given up at some point, even though France would clear his throat and make a show of which object on the table he was supposed to pick up. England was at the other end of the table, near Queen Victoria. She was smiling at a young man, who America assumed belonged to Germany since he was sitting beside him. England seemed lost in thought as he sipped at his wine. Every time America risked a glance his way he wasn’t looking back at him.

“Alfred... Amerique.”

“Huh?” said America, turning to find France giving him a peculiar look. 

“Have you been listening?” 

“Not really,” he admitted, focusing instead on his plate. He had the distinct feeling that France was reading something written on his face and he really wished they hadn’t been seated together. France sighed and sat back slightly in his chair. America tried not to stoop as he went back to eating, feeling France’s eyes on his back. Suddenly, there was a surreptitious touch right below his right ear and above the collar of his shirt. Just a tap, but it sent heat racing over America’s skin.

“Who gave you this, hmmm?” America could hear the grin in France’s voice, not even needing to see it.

“No one.”

“‘No one’ is very good with his or her mouth then. I don’t think I could have done better.” France laughed and America reached for the wine glass, hoping that it would cool the blush on his face. Where was a cold food course when he needed it?! “You may as well tell me because I will find out one way or another. It would be a black mark on my reputation if I didn’t know the ins and outs of everyone’s love affairs and bed excursions. I didn’t think I’d get to add you to my list any time soon.”

“You can keep me off your list.” After all, it was a couch not a bed, and it hadn’t gone that far. At least he didn’t think so, his memories were fuzzy and the after effects of the opium were making his stomach sensitive. 

“I was thinking perhaps you had something going with Mexico, you two are like England and Spain back in the day, but that mark looks far too recent. You’re far too earnest for it to have been a human... that means it must be someone else here.” America looked at him, France was tapping his lips with the end of his soup spoon, eyes scanning the table. 

“Look, I know you are still sore at me over your revolution and over the deal we had about New Orleans... just don’t be a jackass about this.” France snorted in amusement. “I’m serious.”

“Oh ho, that narrows down the candidates quite a bit.” France’s eyes met his for just a moment and then flicked to a point behind America’s head. France knew too much about this for his guess to really miss its mark. He knew. America could tell by the way he settled back into his chair as the footman came to clear the meat course. “Oh, my dear boy...”

“Stop. It’s not like that.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” said France in a way that was clear that he didn’t believe him at all.

***

Victoria was beautiful in her ball gown dancing with Prince Albert. She’d been making her rounds of other aristocrats of Europe, but always came back to him. He would be a good match, England thought, even if it would please Belgium’s king to no end. An alliance with her wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. Not to mention it would make the Germans happy. The distraction was welcome from the chaos that threatened to overtake him if his eyes lingered overlong on America who was currently showing off his ability to waltz with a giggling young woman.

“Congratulations on your new queen, mon ami.” England sighed and turned to see France standing at his shoulder. 

“What do you want, Francis?” 

Ignoring him, France continued, “So many new things have made an appearance in this start of a new era. We are all at peace in Europe, trade is booming, young nations are making strides at coming into their own... speaking of which, it appears someone has debauched our dear Amerique. Do you have any guesses as to whom?”

Scowling England hid his face behind his wine glass “What do you mean? How could you know. Did he say something?” 

France smiled at him. “I am a connoisseur of the marks of l’amour. The boy has a mark under his right ear. Someone was very amorous, oui?”

“A mark?” England frowned and looked around the room for Alfred. He found him standing not too far off speaking with Ludwig. It really was there, bright as day. England felt his cheeks burn and he coughed into his hand. “Its none of our business.” When had he done that!?

France raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, I can’t believe you aren’t interested in this. Do you think it could be Germany? The boys are friends, although Allemagne seems just as innocent...” He rested his hands on his hips and tilted his head in thought. “No, it had to have been someone more experienced. Let’s see, who is fond of marking their conquests...”

“Would you drop it!” England hissed. “It's no one's business.” Crossing his arms, England looked pointedly away from America, watching Victoria. This was not a mess that he ever expected to find himself in. 

France gave a theatrical huff annoyance, as if England was being the biggest bore possible. “I am making it my business. The boy was always so preoccupied with you that he wouldn’t even bend to my charms, many though they are. I’m dying to know who got there first.”

“America has never had that type of interest in me. He rebelled against me for goodness sakes.” England frowned, waving for a new wine glass.

Gripping his elbow, France turned England around to face him. “You’re not serious. Are you really not aware...? My dear Angleterre...” France shook his head.

“Aware of what?” England said sharply. “Don't man handle me!” Stepping back, he glared at the other when Francis refused to let go. “I'm going to give you two seconds. How much have you had to drink!?”

“Have you honestly never noticed the way he’s been looking at you since the Seven Years War?”

“He looks at me when he talks to me. Like any normal person does,” England argued. Despite his protesting, internally, England was a mess. This wasn't his first time in such a situation, yet it was so unlikely. However, the incident from early in the day stopped him in his tracks. America had always been rather prudish so for that to happen was a shock in itself and now with Francis’s words it was like things were falling into place like puzzle pieces.

France released him and shook his head. “Those rumors were not based on nothing. And you shouldn’t grip your wine glass so tightly, you’ll give yourself away. Now if you’ll excuse me.” France brushed past him.

This time it was England that grabbed the other. Gripping the Frenchman’s wrist England hissed, “There is nothing to give away and if I found out that you are going around saying that there is then you will be sorry Francis. I mean it!”

France looked down his nose at him. “I don’t intend to say a word. It’s for America’s sake. I can’t stand the the boy at times, but he doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken in front of the entire world.”

“Don't be round about with me Francis,” England said seriously “I want to hear straight from you. What exactly are you saying? You owe me that much”

“I’ll make it very simple then. That boy is in love with you, it’s been that way for a long time.”

“That-” England stared at his friend, though he'd never admit such a relationship aloud, for a long moment in shock before swallowing. “D-Did...” He swallowed again his throat suddenly dry. “Did, did he tell you this?” he said breathlessly. It wasn’t possible.

“Not in so many words, but he has never denied it directly. Perhaps, he is afraid to say it aloud. He asked me once if I thought he could both be independent and have you.”

England stared at the blue eyed blond before nodding slowly. “I believe I need another drink,” he muttered before turning as if too look for a servant walking around with a tray. “If you'll excuse me.” Placing his half full glass of wine on the tray of a servant who appeared in front of him as if summoned by magic, England made to leave the ball room, heading for the privacy and cold air of the terrace.

***

What was France doing!? America had asked him not to do anything and he goes straight to England?! What could he be telling him? Or worse, were they arranging something? They were standing very close together...

“Are you listening?”

“Huh?” said America, looking at Germany who was giving him a very stern look. “Ha, no I was a little distracted. I think I might have eaten something funny at dinner.”

“You’re unwell?”

England disappeared through one of the open doors out onto the balcony that led towards a garden. France was nowhere to be seen. “Something like that. Excuse me.” Germany made an attempt to say something to him, but America didn’t hear it, more concerned about confronting France if he dared to do anything about what he’d assumed. 

Walking a little faster than was seemly, America made his way through the crowd to the other side of the ballroom and out the doors. The evening wind caught him full in the face, a little fresher here than it had been in the other parts of the city, especially with the breeze coming in from the ocean. It was England’s smell. 

A few other people milled around on the balcony. Groups of young ladies waving fans over their flushed faces as they told the young men that they needed a break before they could possibly take another dance. Turning this way and that, America looked for him. He was standing at the far end of the expanse of stone, away from everyone else. He was looking out at the park, arms crossed over his chest. For a moment, America stood watching him trying to think of a way to announce himself. Instead, he walked up a few feet away from where England stood. He rested his forearms on the railing, glancing sideways to see if England noticed.

***

The minute America had entered the terrace England had been aware of the others presence. And then he watched out of the corner of his eye as America leaned against the railing to steal glances at him. England waited for a long moment before calling the boy out on his awkward social skills. “Are you gonna stand over there and stare at me or come speak with me?” England said sharply. 

“What were you talking about with France?”

Arching a brow, England turned to look at the other, proud of his years of court practice that made it possible to school his face into neutrality. “Why?”

“He was just... never mind. It’s nothing.” He turned and leaned against the railing, rubbing the back of his neck. “He... I thought you two... I thought you didn’t like him is all.”

“Oh, because we stopped sleeping together.” England relaxed. This was safe territory.

America’s hand dropped off the back of his neck and hung at his side. “Oh.” 

England shrugged. “I became privy to the information that someone dear to me has real feelings for the frog, though for the life of me I can't see why. So I ended it.”

“Is that what you were talking about?”

“No.” 

England frowned looking at America. “He was telling me something...why are you so hung up on it?” America looks nervous...is what France saying true?

“I think that France might still be mad at me about some stuff that went down with his revolution and our alliance, not to mention that he never got New Orleans back and I think he meant to... Anyway, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t telling you lies about me.”

“Who knows?” England sighed. “Tell Matthew he can do better,” he muttered, a sudden wave of protectiveness washing over him.

“How did you find out about that?” blurted America, surprise crossing his features.

“This is not my first time around the block, Alfred. I've watched them in the same room multiple times. Matthew changed, the way he talks with Francis is different. And I've seen his face when Francis flirts with me, anyone for that matter. He's a bit more transparent than he thinks he is.” He looked at the other. Maybe? “You both are,” England added. Francis may be a lot of things but a liar wasn't one of them. But maybe he was wrong?

America was quiet, the light from the ballroom landing on his face. “Matt is mysterious sometimes, and I told him that by the way. He doesn’t deserve it. It’s... not easy to be in love with someone you’re not supposed to.”

“Well, I guess if you are learning that then you are finally growing up.” England gave him a small smile. So Francis was wrong. America couldn't have feelings of romantic intent towards him, if he was in love with someone he wasn't supposed to. Of course now he was curious. Who the hell wasn't America supposed to be in love with?

“Right.” The corner of his mouth turned down, a melancholy expression. “Anyway... about this afternoon. I didn’t mean to leave so abruptly. That was rude, I suppose.”

England didn't mean to, he really didn't. But the laughter came forth before he could stop it. Eyes filled with surprise fell on the pair, many of the Lords and Ladies shocked. The fact that Lord Kirkland was laughing was unbelievable. That he was nearly bending over at the waist because he was laughing so hard was unheard of. “Of all the things to say,” England gasped, trying to stop of his laughter. An inappropriate reaction to stress. 

***

America stared at him, bewildered for a moment at the laughter. Then he laughed, too. “Here I thought you were going to scold me for breaking protocol or something. Tarnation.” Then he laughed, too, of all the reactions he was expecting to bringing up what had passed between them it wasn’t humor. England leaned on the rail, trying to catch his breath. America wanted to reach out, feel connected to him again, would England even let him that close anymore? “I wasn’t that bad was I?” he said, hoping that it would come off as more of a joke, rather than the apprehension he felt.

***

England's laughter did falter at that question. It brought back uncomfortable emotions. Clearing his throat England looked around uncomfortably. To ask such a question. England felt his stomach drop. There was no way that this was America's first time doing anything! He cast a wary glance at America. It really was none of his business but to ask such a... a virgin question.

America rubbed at the back of his neck, a weak smile on his face. “Ha, well, good talk England. I’m going to bed, I’ll see you tomorrow before I leave.” The movement was wooden, but he patted England on the shoulder. Face flushed, he started back towards the ballroom.

“It was great,” England blurted out, pale facing darkening several shades in horror. “Uh, that is...”

America turned back, eyes widening at the look on England’s face. “It...?” 

“Nothing.” England backtracked, looking away in embarrassment. 

America stood there, watching him for a moment, toying with the hem of his jacket. It drew England’s attention. “Do you... Gilbert told me he’s got some schnäpse that he wanted to share. Are you going to go?”

“Um.” England looked back into the ballroom where the party continued. He really should stay, Victoria would not be happy if she went to look for him only to find that he was gone. Stepping in the doorway he was happy to see that she was chatting with Albert, completely absorbed in their conversation. “All right. Yes, I’ll come along Alfred.” 

***

The party was small, ensconced in one of the rooms deeper into the palace. It was a small parlor that had been turned into an impromptu drinking party. Germany was sitting stiffly in an armchair while France and Prussia argued over spirits while Austria sat primly nearby eyeing both of them with suspicion. Upon entering the room, eyes flew to the newcomers. 

A voice sounded right at America’s shoulder. “Zdravstvuyte, America.” 

“Hello Russia. I didn’t know you were going to be here.” The Russian must have been standing right beside the door to appear so suddenly. 

“He wasn’t technically invited,” Prussia shouted from the other side of the room.

“Everyone else was,” said Russia, his face unreadable. The two stared at each other for a moment. “Anyway, perhaps you will come have a drink with me?” America glanced at England for a moment, but agreed and they walked over to the table where the bottles of liquor had been laid out.

“Turkey was here, but decided to bow out,” said Prussia as England glanced in his direction.

“And of course Braginski is here,” England said,flatly. It wasn't that he and the russian had any specific quarrels at the moment, but he did not like the other. He got a bad vibe from the other and he was causing so many problems for Feliks.

“Like I said, I didn’t invite the guy,” said Prussia, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, come drink with us.” Without waiting for England’s answer, he stepped forward and practically dragged him over to the bottle, pouring out shots. France threw England a glance while tipping back his shot and wrinkling his nose. 

“I wonder what they are talking about?” asked France, gesturing towards America and Russia. America laughed at something and Russia actually smiled. “How can they possibly have anything in common?”

“Who knows,” England muttered, taking a shot as well. He glared at the pair before taking another one. The Russian was pissing him off even more than normal. “Do you have a cigar?” he looked to Prussia. 

He grinned and reached for a wooden box he had sitting beside the schnapps bottle. “Got them from Spain. Fresh from one of those colonies I can never remember the names of.” 

England shrugged, taking one and striking a match against the side of the box. Lighting it he took a deep inhale, exhaling in satisfaction as the nicotine buzzed through his veins. 

“Did you have a good talk with America, Angleterre?” asked France, settling down onto the sitting couch. His fingers plucked at the back of England’s jacket, a clear invitation to sit. With a roll of his eyes, England excused himself from Prussia’s company and with a grimace settled onto the couch sitting as far from France as the furniture would allow. 

“Yes, and none of it is your business.” 

France opened his mouth to speak, but America dropped onto the couch between them, leaving no room for Russia who was forced to sit in one of the other chairs next to Germany. “Is that from Cuba?”

“That was his name!” chimed in Prussia, settling onto the arm next to France. “Is that the one you don’t like?”

“Nah, I don’t know him that well. You’re thinking of Mexico, but I don’t want to talk about him either.” 

Prussia reached over France’s head to ruffle America’s hair. “And here I thought you would forget everything I taught you.” 

“I’m sure England’s influence is present as well,” said Austria, who stood up to wander over to the small harpsichord that was in the corner. His fingers tapped out a few notes.

“Why did I invite you?” Prussia said as Austria began to play, receiving a huff of annoyance from the other. Rolling his eyes he turned back to the others. “You’ve tried them right, America?”

“To be honest, pipe smoking is still more fashionable.”

England coughed violently, a snort of laughter causing him to inhale improperly. “So despite your blustering you do care about such things.” England shook his head in amusement as Prussia chortled. 

“You all should watch out. I’m going to be fashionable soon.” America grinned at him and reached up to catch the cigar from England’s hand. Taking it, he tried it, making a face. “Not smoking those though.” He coughed and handed it back to England.

England stared at the cigar in his hand for a brief moment. America had pulled it straight from his hand, put it in his mouth and then handed it back. For a brief moment his mind flashed back to his personal smoking room, their opium fueled moment rushing back. Noticing the odd look he was receiving from Prussia he stuck it in his mouth. “Yes, but they are highly convenient when you leave your pipe box in your quarters and you have to send for a servant and then stuff it. Sometimes the ease makes it all worth the while” England pointed out. 

“It all depends on what is cheaper,” Austria called out and within moments Prussia made a gesture at the brunette and the two were in an argument. 

“Everytime.” France sighed, flipping his hair over his shoulder as he nursed a glass of wine.

“I better go mediate.” Germany sighed and pushed himself up from his chair walking towards the harpsichord. Any music that had been playing was ended with a frustrated slamming of the keys and rapid fire German flying back and forth in the corner of the room. 

Clearing his throat, France said, “Perhaps those two need to work out their grievances in the bedroom.” Two curses flew his way and he laughed. “Honestly. Ivan, I overheard you telling Alfred you want to sell part of Russian America to him?”

“Da, but not all of it, but many of the lands are not as useful as they once were. Too wild and not enough game. Arthur’s fur trappers have quite depleted them.”

“I’m not too worried about that,” added America, interjecting as the room suddenly felt colder. “I think there’s something to them.”

“Perhaps you could come explore them.” 

“Maybe I will.” 

England frowned, unhappy with the way the conversation was turning. He smoked his cigar furiously as he peered stubbornly at a painting across the room. He had planned no specific events for the evening but he was still displeased with the way that things were turning out. 

The mantle clock chimed four in the morning. Russia had disappeared sometime around two. Germany had shouldered a sleeping Prussia and left around three. France was sprawled on a day bed near the fire, while Austria had nodded off on his instrument. At one point, America had stretched out on the couch. His large frame didn’t quite fit, but he still managed to fall asleep with his legs propped up on the arm and his head next to England’s thigh on the cushion. 

England made slow work of his cigar as he glanced about the room gaze settling on America. The man could certainly sleep anywhere. Reaching down he straightened the wheat colored hair the best he could, the other having mussed it in his sleep. England was reminded of New Orleans, the boy looked exactly the same now as he had then. A perk or curse of being nations, he guessed. Though it seemed that while America looked just as he had in New Orleans, which was just barely older than he had back in the -- He shook his head, chest clenching uncomfortably. Despite looking the same as he had, America was unmistakingly growing up, far too fast in England’s opinion. Although America had made it quite clear that it was none of England’s business. 

America had asked to be friends and they had begun a fragile relationship that had no real label. And then America had tried to find out what they were, that had shaken things up and England had been hoping to avoid it. Now with the opium incident... everything was more convoluted than it had been. It caused England’s head to swim. Coupled with the dreams that had been plaguing him on and off since the first one at Belgium's party, his nerves were becoming raw. Normally, he would just invite the other into his bed, fuck him and either be done with or continue having sex with the other until either one or the both of them were bored with it. It usually ended seamlessly, although sometimes he had issues, like with Vicente. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that with America. And he was certain that if he did make such an offer to the sleeping blond that he would be rejected without thought. So why was this still bothering him? 

A yawn interrupted his thoughts and England rubbed at his eyes with a sigh. It was far too late to be thinking of such things. He needed to be awake for breakfast. Reaching down he ran his fingers through the other’s hair for a few moments before tapping his cheek. “Alfred, you need to go sleep in your bed.” 

America’s brow furrowed as he woke up. He blinked up at England for a moment, confusion crossing his face. Sitting up, he looked around as if he had to reorient himself to where he was. He rubbed at his face. “What time is it?”

“Just a couple of hours before dawn. You fell asleep.” Reaching behind him England snuffed his cigar in a tray. 

“It’s been a long day,” America said, yawning. He stood up and turned to England with an embarrassed smile on his face. “Can you show me how to get back to my room? I’m not really sure I know where we are in this place.”

England shook his head in mock disappointment, getting to his feet as well. “As a good host I expect that I should.” He motioned for the other to follow him. Silence fell over them as the pair walked the halls, small noises signifying that the servants were preparing for the day to come. England expected that they could take a small, late breakfast before heading out to the zoo and the gallery. “We shall be eating supper in London rather than having it at the palace tommo- well today, I guess.”

They’d reached the door to America’s room and he reached forward to pull it open. “I look forward to it.” Hesitating in the doorway, America looked back at him, searching his face for something. “Arthur, will you... nevermind. Good night.”

“What is it Alfred?”

***

America bit his lip. What would happen if he asked England to stay? Would he say yes? Did he want him to? Heart pounding against his ribs, America realized he wanted more. He didn’t want England to say yes because he was curious. He wanted England to say yes because he loved him back. Worry curled in his chest, it might never be that way. Canada said it was enough to take what he could get. No, America decided, he didn’t want it that way and wouldn’t accept it. “Nothing, good night.” Before he could second guess his decision he closed the door between them and leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut. In the darkness of his quarters his skin felt alive again with England’s touch, his lips buzzing with the memory of the kisses. Not like this.

***

Heaving a sigh, England reached out for the door but paused and shaking his head turned around and headed down the hall. For a brief moment he debated on making the offer to join him in his bed. Yet, he wasn’t able to. It wasn’t right. And besides, he wasn't ready for rejection, especially when they had a day ahead of them.

***

Late morning...

America was grateful that England had been thoughtful enough to order coffee with breakfast. He was probably done with half the pot before England had finished his first cup of tea. It had a sobering effect though and after the events of yesterday and the dangerous dreams involving a sober England asking him into his bed... he needed it. “Where to first?” he asked, piling more bacon onto his plate.

“I figured the gallery” England leaned back in his chair, watching with raised brows as the other continued to eat.

America nodded, reaching for another piece of toast. His fingers accidentally brushed England’s as the other had done the same. America paused for a moment and then took the piece of bread, wondering if England would say anything. 

Flinching, England drew his hand back, grasping his cup. He frowned as one of the servants came in carrying a letter on a tray. “A letter for master Jones, my Lord,” he announced and England waved at him to give it to America with a frown.

Taking the letter he opened it while taking a large bite of the toast. The message was short. He glanced up at England. “It’s from my boss. I need to leave on the next ship out. I guess we’ll have to postpone our trip around London.”

“Again?” England frowned in irritation. “You left abruptly, foregoing our plans last time as well.”

America leaned back in his seat, resting one hand on the edge of the table. “I could be irresponsible. Ignore my boss,” he said, knowing what England’s reaction to the comment would be.

“Absolutely not!” England snapped. “You wanted to be a nation so there you are.” Crossing his arms, his nose turned up slightly. Effectively displaying his displeasure. “Have Matthew tell you about them then. He has been”

America smiled, England was still England. “We’ll go next time I visit. I’ll probably have some interesting things to bring you, too.” He stood up, stepping around the table and pausing near England’s shoulder. He thought about touching his shoulder, but worried that would sap resolve to leave without figuring out exactly what had happened in England’s rooms. Maybe it was better not to know. “Will you come see me off?”

“Of course. I am your host am I not?”

***

The ship was old, but it would do. It was likely put in the ocean right before his last war. A merchant ship that had likely been recruited for war. It was on its way back after being in the Pacific. America couldn’t help look at it and see the last forty years piled in front of him. And maybe a little bit of the future, there was, after all, more to explore in that big ocean. He turned from the white of the sail to England who was standing behind him. He swallowed and extended a hand. “I’ll write to you,” he said.

England stared at his hand for a brief moment before taking it. “So our correspondence continues... good... it... it offers a break from all the paperwork.”

America knew he shook England’s hand for a moment too long for it to be strictly proper. “Goodbye, Arthur.”

With a nod England dropped his hand, quickly pocketing it. “And you Alfred.”

There was so much more to say, but America hid it all behind a smile that he didn’t quite feel. Turning away he went up the gang plank and onto the ship, the president’s note heavy in his pocket wondering when he’d be able to slip away again.


	12. Troubled Water

July 1838  
London, England

What was he supposed to do about it all? What was even going on between him and America? Had it all just been a fluke? It should not have been that hard for England to just get it over with. Then with France's comments. What did France mean about America looking at him since the Seven Years War? America had been a child! And then... all of that... Sure, he and America had experienced a brief physical flare in private, but England had always been one to take what was offered and America was young and full of young people needs. Running his hands through his hair, England sighed harshly as he glared at the seagulls squabbling over random scraps dropped by men and cargo on the docks. He had come here to think, close to the ocean, a comforting place. Yet, he only found his mind turning in circles, around and around. His mind had refused to quiet itself regarding the topic since Alfred had returned home. 

“Well, there you are Lord Kirkland. Looking as pensive as ever it seems.”

“Oh come now, Charlotte! No need to be so callous just because you are the oldest.”

“You two ought to remember that. Emily you are just twenty and Anne you are two years shy of that!” The bickering that could only come from siblings drew England’s attention away from the hustle and bustle of the docks. He had been there since the early morning, his thoughts not allowing him to continue his sleep any longer. Turning around, England found himself face to face with three young women he was very familiar with, three literary geniuses with whom the world was sure to be enamored with for decades to come. 

“The Bronte sisters. Good morning.” England tipped his hat as three smiles lit up, brown curls bouncing in their ever present enthusiasm. “I take it Branwell is around here somewhere?” He mentioned their brother, who was always their escort. “I am surprised to see that you are in London.”

“Debating with a shopkeeper just back there. Ink and paper, you know. Our family's bread and butter. And I decided to take a break from Roe. I am thinking about taking up the role of governess in a short time” Charlotte, the oldest of the trio but the middle of a family with five daughters and a son, piped up importantly. The three sisters smiled again and England couldn’t help but return the expression. 

All three sisters were well known poets and novelists. However, like the majority of contemporary female writers they published their work under male pen names. Their writing had taken the literary community by storm, filled with passion and originality. Their works were the talk of the town when they were released. England was proud to say that he owned personal copies of everything each sister had released thus far signed with pen and real name. The whole family supplied weeks worth of wit and tantalizing conversation. They made for the most interesting of afternoon tea guests. 

“You seem to have a lot on you mind, Lord Kirkland,” Emily mentioned, concern lacing her young voice. 

“It looks like a love problem. The same one Branwell had with that girl.” A grin lit up Anne’s face and ignored the scolding look Charlotte, who, at eighteen, was in charge of the trio, gave her. 

“Oh, do let us help!” Emily pleaded as the three girls in their full skirts and small waists crowded closer to him, to hear better over the noise of the dock. 

“Well...” England hesitated. He had known the Bronte family long before the girls had even been born. But to tell his concern to three young women whom he had, although invited to tea on multiple occasions, were three women he had never thought of as confidants. Three brilliant young women who could craft stories and intricately lay out problems like it was breathing.

“We could go to tea. If it would be much more comfortable and easier to talk and I am sure Branwell would enjoy being able to take care of his business here rather than watching us.” Charlotte smiled. England sighed and agreed to escort the young ladies to tea.

***

“And yet, after all that your friend isn't sure how he feels about the girl? Is he daft? I find it obvious he is completely smitten! Both of them are!” Charlotte rolled her eyes from behind her cup. They had settled for a small, cozy tea house tucked away in a corner not far from the docks. It was filled with women, who were more than likely waiting on their husbands or brothers to finish their business at the docks just as the three sisters were. 

“I think that’s a bit harsh.” England winced, nursing his own cup of hot tea. 

“The truth hurts, but I agree with Charlotte,” Anne piped up, using a small silver spoon to mix her assorted parfait. 

“But he practically raised her!” England argued. 

“So? He helped raise her, but they aren’t blood related. It kind of reminds me of the situation where the little sister falls in love with their older sibling’s best friend. I mean the best friend was there for the entirety of the younger sibling's life thus far, so he kind of helped raise her,” Emily interjected. 

“How do you know it’s not just a brief infatuation?” England tried weakly, his hopes being dashed. He was really hoping the sisters, at least one of them, would agree that what America had was merely a momentary fixation and that England was merely dealing with exasperated lust. 

“By the way you described it all. Your friend must be a very good story teller for you to have all these details.” Charlotte grinned and England cleared his throat, grabbing for a small sandwich off of the platter to bide himself some time. 

“Yes, indeed.” England said quickly, flashing them a smile. If his stomach was uneasy and his chest tight before it was worse than before. What was he to do now? Could they possibly be right? Dicken’s had said something else very similar the other night at supper. He rubbed at his temples as a warmth spread through his chest. Similar to his and America's quiet moment. He couldn’t decide now... but it seemed that he would have to leave it as an option. America liked him, and perhaps England felt something similar in return. The thought left him feeling nauseous and giddy all at once. 

“I think your friend should listen to his other friend about how the girl feels and just go with it. We are only on this earth for a short time are we not? Might as well take love when we can find it.” Charlotte smiled softly. 

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. “ England smiled. Victoria had said the same thing. Was he really the only one who seemed to not be certain about it all. There was no way he was truly over thinking it, was he?

***

November 1838

Dear Alfred, 

I wish I had something happier to respond to you in return for your tales of adventuring. However, I find that I don't have such news at this time. The Daoguang Emperor has completely banned opium. This is not good for my economy. Twenty-seven percent of the men in china have been regularly consuming opium. It's a huge profit. This can't happen. And that's not the part that pisses me off the most. The man he assigned to take care of all of this has closed down the Pearl River Channel! Locking my merchants inside. Yao has fucking locked up my traders! Raided my ships and fucking destroyed my property! My warehouses! My stocks! He must be completely daft if he thinks that he is going to get away with this! Master Elliot has went as far as to instruct my ships to leave harbor only to have them grabbed and restrained. Yao will have to learn it seems. For now, I shall settle with having my traders deal with chinese authorities in return for exact compensation. But such a slight must be responded to. 

Your Servant  
Arthur 

***

March 9, 1841

Dear Arthur,

You will no doubt be happy to hear of the results of the hearing on the Amistad case. I know you think I was being a problem over the whole scenario, but it’s, well, a “peculiar institution” as they call it in the southern states. I’m a little mixed up over the whole thing since everyone feels so strongly about it one way or another. I know you think I should have a firm opinion, but maybe it’ll just go away? You didn’t have to send me an extra copy of the Treaty of Ghent, I remember what I promised you.

Anyway, Spain isn’t thrilled with getting caught smuggling slaves and there’s a lot of chaos here. Anyway, the Africans are getting sent back home as soon as possible. Their freedom is assured so you can relax. 

President Harrison is ill, but the doctors are trying to help. I’m sure he’ll be fine. 

I’m still at war in Florida, but that’s not new news. 

I expect a reasonable conclusion to the issue over the use of force against me when you were having a problem with rebels in Canada. I can’t exactly ignore that a British ship fired on my people on my side of the lake. The Caroline debacle is kind of a mess.

Canada’s fine by the way, I know that you care even if you are angry with him. You probably blame me for it anyway... I won’t deny that I’d help him if he declared independence from you. He is my brother. And really, would you expect anything less? 

I suppose there isn’t much more to say. I’m planning some expeditions and maybe our paths will cross.

With sincerity,  
Alfred

***

March 1841  
New York

“Alfred... you didn’t tell England I was here did you?” America leaned back from his writing desk, glancing over his shoulder at Canada. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and he looked tired.

“He didn’t mention a word about your rebellion the last time I saw him... once he heard about it I’m sure he was cursing my name and not yours. I’m sure he thinks I incited you to rebellion.” 

“I...”

America turned and smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I can take it.”

Matching America’s smile with its opposite, Canada sat down on the sitting couch, drawing up his stockinged feet under the blanket. Without asking, America got up to put another log on the fire raising the temperature in the room. Canada watched him. “Will you tell me what happened between you two when you went for Queen Victoria’s coronation?”

America clenched his jaw, taking the fire poker and thrusting it at one of the logs until it sparked. “He didn’t tell you?” 

“He doesn’t tell me things like that. We used to tell each other things...” 

Sitting back on his heels, America stared at the fire. “If I tell you... I might... I don’t know, Matthew, I might... sometimes I feel like I’m falling apart.”

“I’ve seen you fall apart. I can take it.” Canada made space for him on the couch and wrapped the blanket around his shoulder. Closing his eyes, America leaned on his shoulder. He would be content to just sit like this with Canada. At least Canada wasn’t all that complicated, he could be secretive and was mean when he got angry, but he was still him. Best of all, he didn’t really pry... often.

“I think... he doesn’t understand me.”

Canada snorted. “Is that really news to you?”

“No, but I think I may have made it worse. He invited me to his rooms--”

“America!”

“It wasn’t like that! I mean, not at first. He wanted to show me some of the opium he imported, thinking I would want to sell it. I guess he didn’t realize it was already around... but anyway, I went.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t know what the stuff was going to do. Next thing I know I think I’m dreaming and he’s there and... and...”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so... it’s still all blurry when I try to remember. He laughed at me when I apologized for running out when I’d sobered up a little and then... he hasn’t said a thing about it.” America huffed and leaned away from Canada’s consoling pat on his back. “I mean, it probably meant nothing to him. I’m just another notch on his belt after he’s been with half the world.” The words were bitter. Resting his elbows on his knees he covered his face with his hands. It was humiliating. He was supposed to be protecting Canada, he shouldn’t let him see him like this. His brother’s hand had barely landed on his back again before he stood up and shoved down all of the emotions.

“America...”

“Seriously, I don’t care. I feel better now, Matt, thanks!” He turned and grinned at him, trying not to notice the suspicious look on his brother’s face.

“If you try and hold it all in it’s going to explode... like a steam engine that doesn’t have a valve. You need to tell him.”

“Like you’ve told France?” Canada’s flush was all he needed to see. “I took what there was to get and I’m not interested.”

“You’re a liar.” 

Ignoring the jibe, America walked out of the room to post his letter. “You can stay as long as you want, Matt, let me know if you want to make a real run at independence.”

***

December 1842

Dear Alfred

It seems as if Yao has indeed learned his lesson, as the war between us has been resolved in four years. I met with him just recently and he has signed the Treaty of Nanking as well as a Treaty of Bogue. His empire, the Qing Empire, has made it official for their people that Britain is an equal as well as receiving extraterritorial privileges in his ports. Five additional ports have all been made ready for my use and discretion. 

And if things couldn't go on more swimmingly, I have also gained a new colony, Hong Kong. You shall probably be meeting him soon. This debacle with China has made it rather difficult to maintain contact with you and for that I apologize. But I shall try better. I was also interested to see that you and Francis have also been speaking of making similar treaties with Yao. 

Your servant,  
Arthur 

***

November 1847  
New York, New York

It was raining. America could hear it hammering on the roof of the building as he got ready for bed. It had been a while since he was home. The smell of dust still clung to him wherever he went from the southwest, his southwest now. Mexico knew he’d lost control of everything north of the Rio Grande, it was just a matter of making it official. America thought he could offer to pay for California, maybe that would soften the blow. It’s not like they could get away from each other. Mexico was going to be plastered onto his southern border no matter how far south he claimed territory. They should at least try to be friendly now that the issue of where they ended was settled. America leaned over to turn down the oil lamp. If he didn’t, he knew he’d be right back downstairs again pouring over the maps in his study. 

He yawned. Now if only he could get them to stop arguing in Congress. There had to be a way to mend their differences, right? He nearly forgot to pull his glasses off his face, fingers bumping into them as he rubbed his eye. They still felt new even though he’d been wearing them since 1845 after he annexed Texas. Carefully folding the frames he set them onto his bedside table and burrowed into the blankets. If it was going to snow he planned on sleeping for a week.

Pulling a pillow into his arms, he tried to get comfortable. It was getting cold again, harder to keep warm in the house. Sleep crept in at the edges, making things fuzzy. Thoughts and memories chased themselves around and around. He imagined England in place of the pillow. However, the fantasy never quite worked, the pillow smelled nothing like him.

Bang, bang. Ding, ding. 

Someone was pulling on the chord near the front door. America squinted at the clock in the darkness. It was after 10 p.m. Who on earth could it be? Striking a match to light the lamp again he pulled on a robe and went downstairs. The bell continued to ring. Pulling it open he saw the uniformed police officer. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“These two vagrants say that they know you,” said the man. “I was going to clear them off the street, but the man was making such a scene and the little girl... I didn’t want to disturb you, but...”

Curious, America glanced at the two people who were standing behind the officer, and the man was abruptly pulled forward into the light of America’s lamp. He seemed familiar and for a moment, America couldn’t quite place him. His red hair was drenched and his clothes were shabby. A little girl was clutched in his arms, her face pressed into his coat. Her own red hair was plastered to her back in a long braid. America’s eyes widened. He knew those eyebrows, even if he didn’t recognize the rest of the face. “You remember me then, laddy?” said Ireland, relief showing immediately in his face.

“Yes, I know them. Thanks for delivering them to me!” America said, ushering the two into the house. The officer nodded and stepped down off the porch. Closing the door, America ushered the two into the kitchen and began adding wood to the fire. Soon the room was warming up and America went to go find something dry they could change into. He returned with some clothes. The little girl was sitting in front of the fire, an entire loaf of bread in her hands taking large bites. America remembered being that hungry more than a few times and he didn’t have the heart to tell her to slow down. 

“Thank you, America,” said Ireland, taking the clothes from him. “Sorry about the bread, Colleen is starving. We both are.”

“No problem,” replied America. “I heard about what’s happening over there... I can’t seem to get a straight story out of anyone what’s really going on. I know that you had a bad couple of years but...”

“England’s trying to kill us!” The little girl exclaimed, standing up, anger flaring across her face. She muttered something in Gaelic that America didn’t quite understand, but it was obvious Ireland understood her perfectly well.

“Hush, your elder brother is just playing politics.”

“Fine, let me correct myself. He’s trying to kill me! He’ll probably let you live.” In a huff she grabbed the shirt out of Ireland’s hands and stomped off to a dark corner of the kitchen to change.

America glanced at Ireland. “Who is she?”

“I think she’s the personification of those that are discontent... I can’t hear some of my own people anymore...”

A chill went down America’s spine. A voice had been growing in the back of his head, a mumbling that he couldn’t quite make out. Sometimes it grew louder, closer, but then would retreat as things shifted and changed. Headaches and voices. He swallowed. “That can happen? Someone new can, well, split off from us?” 

“If the people truly see themselves as different... Or we lose control...” Ireland coughed and shivered. “Would you mind if I...”

“No, go ahead, I’ll try and warm up some water. I don’t have any tea, but will coffee work?” Ireland nodded and was soon replaced with Colleen who looked up at America with wide green eyes. She had picked up the loaf of bread and bit off a big piece. Turning away, America frowned at the water kettle as he settled it over the fire. What did they want him to do? It wasn’t like he could just take in all of their people, there wouldn’t be room for them all! There was already concern brewing over what to do with the Irish that were already there, or rather the new Irish. Ireland’s people had always been there mixed in with the rest of the British Isles, not to mention all of the other Europeans. Germany’s people had been showing up in droves, too. Somehow in the last 20 years more immigrants than ever before had arrived and it showed no signs of stopping. It might not be so bad if everyone could get along, but... some people weren’t very happy about hearing all the new accents in the cities. America wasn’t quite sure what to make of that.

America rubbed at his forehead, there was that headache again. It was getting worse, starting right between his eyes. Yanking his glasses off her rubbed at the spot, wondering if he could get it to go away. 

“Is something wrong with you?” America felt a hand on his arm and squinted at Colleen, the new Ireland. 

“Just a headache.”

She reached up and tapped the center of his forehead. “The fairies will make you better.” America was so surprised he laughed and the girl smiled. 

“The fairies don’t fix everything, lassie,” said Ireland, coming back looking far more comfortable in dry clothes. Looking at his face, America could see the family resemblance to England more clearly now. “My younger brother certainly is causing them grief.” 

Right, America thought, he’d forgotten that England was the youngest of the four brothers. “Does England know you came here?”

“Uh uh!” said Colleen, “He’s trying to kill me! I’m going to be the Republic of Ireland but they don’t want that!” Ireland scooped her up and she protested at him in Gaelic. Ireland shushed her.

“It’s been a long trip and she is distressed. Is there somewhere she could sleep?” America nodded and showed them to a spare bedroom, watching from the doorway while Ireland tucked her beneath the blankets and came out. He leaned on the door for a moment after pulling it shut.

“Ireland...”

“You can call me Seamus.”

“Seamus, I know that you’ve come a long way, but... what are you doing here?” 

Ireland patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s have a cup of coffee and then I’ll give you my proposal.”

“Proposal?” Ireland wasn’t forthcoming until the coffee was brewed and America had found some more things in his cupboard for him to eat. They sat down on the kitchen table, the firelight flickering over their faces. 

Leaning over, Ireland reached into the satchel he’d been carrying. “Here boy, I brought you some whisky, I’m still not sure what that stuff you’re calling bourbon is about.”

“It’s whiskey.” 

“Sure it is.” 

“I’m going to take that as a challenge. If mine isn’t better now, it will be.”

“I was a little worried you were going to grow up to be like Arthur. You’re quite the scandal after all, but you are far more fun.” Ireland smiled at him and America rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean scandal?”

“That’s a long tale and I’m not here to spin yarns.” Ireland hesitated, staring into his cup. He didn’t look as ancient as he was in America’s clothes that hung off him as if he was nothing but bones. Not to mention that he was no doubt thinner from the famine. “I need you to look after the little lassie. I don’t think anyone else could do it. You know what it’s like to fight with Arthur, maybe you can talk her out of it.”

“I’m really not the best example of how to get out of a situation with Arthur...” America fiddled with the coffee cup in his hands, twirling around the plain glass. 

“That’s why I need you. He never stays cross with you.”

“You don’t think he’s cross with me?”

“Boy, I know what Arthur’s wrath looks like. You’ve only ever gotten the smallest taste,” Ireland said, face growing serious. America searched his face. He was sincere.

“Seamus, I don’t know how to take care of another nation... did you ask Matthew?”

“I’m not looking for Arthur’s pet colony. I need you. Can you handle it?” America swallowed. “I just need her to be here until I can come back for her. I’ve been dealing with Arthur before you were a dreamed up, and I don’t want her caught between us. And if she fades... then so be it.”

“Fades?”

“We don’t die like humans do. If she disappeared...” Ireland frowned, a guilty expression crossing his face. “I should never have let her out.” He reached for the bottle of whisky he’d set on the table and pulled the stopper, taking a long draw.

“What do you mean?”

“I hope you never have to find out.” Ireland kicked back another dram and stood up from the table. “Look, I can give you until tomorrow to decide. Arthur probably knows I’ve left by now, my brothers are shite at keeping secrets. I’ll need to leave on the next steamship home, since I don’t want to leave my people for long. I want to leave her here, but if you don’t think you can help her then I’ll drop her somewhere else. Anywhere else but my island. She’d probably get on fine with Australia.”

“He’s a kid!”

“Then you better make your decision, then. Good night, Alfred.” He didn’t even wait for a response before he headed towards the guest bedroom to join Colleen. America reached for the whisky bottle, heart pounding. It should feel like an honor to be asked to take in another nation that needed help. It was. But... there was no knowing what would happen. Getting up from his seat he walked into the hall.

“Ireland, Seamus.” The other paused. “I’ll take her in.”

The relief in Ireland’s shoulders was immediately obvious. “Thank you, boy--”

“I can’t promise I’ll change her mind.”

“I don’t think anyone can do that.” Silence stretched between them and Ireland leaned against the door frame, looking down at the floor. “Whatever it is between you and Arthur... all I ask is that you weather the storm. He won’t be happy that you’ve agreed to help me.”

“Arthur doesn’t tell me what to do.” 

Ireland smiled. “It’s lucky there’s an entire ocean between the two of you.” Before America could ask what he meant, Ireland turned on his heel and went towards the guest room. America remained seated, the fire burning low in the hearth. The coffee and the conversation had completely turned him from any ideas of sleep. He went back to the study, spreading out the maps once again. He didn’t fall asleep until dawn, head resting on top of the Oregon territory.

***

January 1848  
Buckingham Palace

England shoved the newspaper aside. It was nothing but a complete tittering of squabbling men determined to make a name through opinion alone. If they weren’t complaining about foreigners they were commenting on the current situation in Ireland. England frowned. He wasn’t quite sure how to work that one out and it certainly didn’t help that his brother was going behind his back to other countries. Especially to America. 

He ran a hand through his hair, that fact bothered him quite a bit. It was no secret that many of the Irish that left the island were bound for the United States, but the fact that Ireland himself had gone over there? England didn’t like it at all. The additional fact that he hadn’t asked permission before he had gotten on a ship made it all the more suspicious. What was going on there? America hadn’t mentioned a visit in any of his letters. Why would he fail to mention such a thing? Worry curled in his stomach. Glancing up at the clock, he stood from his desk.

If his brother had bothered to show, he would be arriving in the small dining room for luncheon within the next quarter hour. England smoothed his waistcoat and took off down the hall. He could be civil and then perhaps Ireland would follow suit. I will not lose my temper... 

“Punctual as always, baby brother,” Ireland said as he was let into the room by a servant. His curly red hair fell over his forehead and he smoothed it back. England resisted the urge to bite back a retort. It was just Ireland, the rest of the British Isles weren’t all in there ready to gang up on him.

“It is the duty of a gentleman to arrive on time for his guests.”

“Oh aye, if you say it enough times it might become true.” He walked past England and dropped into one of the chairs. England caught the smell of him and sighed. 

“Did you come to my lunch invitation half into a bottle of whisky?” 

“I figured I may as well get started, I’ll probably need the whole bottle to forget whatever it is you want to admonish me for. I brought you a bottle, Arthur, since I know you’ll likely need one as well. I know you’ve developed a taste for mine over Alistair’s.”

England repeated his mantra. Giving Ireland a fight was exactly what he wanted. He jerked out his own chair and sat down. The servants brought forward the plates of tea and sandwiches. “That was considerate, but...” 

“Why don’t we get on with it so I can eat in peace? Or are you going to snatch this food out of my mouth as well?”

“Parliament has decided that they will drag you into the nineteenth century whether you like it or not! You-” Ireland’s eyebrows pulled down and England bit back the rest of his retort.

“I’ll remember that. My people will remember that.”

“I didn’t bring you here to discuss the policies of Sir Trevelyan in regards to your island. I wanted to discuss your recent visit to the United States of America.”

“You mean my visit with your precious America.”

England’s mouth thinned. “He’s not my anything.”

Ireland raised an eyebrow and started in on his meal, stretching the silence. He drained his cup of tea. “Then you won’t mind the week I spent in his bed.”

The porcelain cup that England had been about to drink from clattered to the floor and smashed. His fingers gripped the edge of the table, but he stopped himself before he sent the entire thing flying. Ireland tilted his head, a smug smile spreading across his face.

“Well, laddie, actions speak louder than words. And you’ve just told me an entire novel’s worth. The limerick that I could write.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re implying, Seamus.”

“I don’t need to imply, Arthur, it’s written all over your face. You want that boy underneath you, did you get a taste of him once, Arthur? I remember the rumors.”

“If you touched him, I swear I’ll...”

“There’s nothing you could do to me that you haven’t already done. But to ease your poor jealous soul, I was in his guest bed.” The relief moved through England. That bloody bastard had just been trying to get a rise out of him! Ireland gave him a defiant look. “Now is that all you wanted?”

Suspicion surged again. “No, I want to know the reason for your travel.”

“He’s taking in my people. I wanted to see New York.”

“What did you leave there?”

Ireland glared at him. “I have no idea what you are on about.”

“My spies said you were not alone.”

“It’s none of your business, Arthur, I suggest you leave it there.”

England’s eyes narrowed, remembering the real reason he wanted to talk to him. There had been talk and he’d caught Wales mentioning something odd to Scotland just a few weeks ago. “Did you leave the personification of the Fenians with America or didn’t you?”

Ireland stared back at him, not giving a hint of anything on his face. “Perhaps you should ask your dear boy.”

“Seamus, you forget your place.”

“Well, forgive me if I have little respect for yours at the moment.” Ireland leaned back in his seat, eyes daring England to do something. “Now if you would, we shouldn’t let this food go to waste. You can resume your displeasure later.”

England sat back down, waving a servant over for a new teacup. “We’re not done with this conversation.”

“Then I will require more details on exactly why you have such a soft spot for your rebellious former colony?”

England glared, Ireland wasn’t going to get out of giving him answers that easily.

***

May 1849

Dear Arthur,

I’m writing you from California and you’ll never believe what happened! I mean, I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now since I’ve already got plenty of people from your place here, but... gold! The California mountains seemed to be filled with it. Or at least dreams of it. People from all over have come to try their hand at making it rich! Chile, Peru, Mexico, Europe, Australia, New Zealand and even China! So many different people all at once, which, as you know better than most, means that almost no one gets along. But see? I told you I’d become fashionable.

I think we could work on the port in San Francisco together. Now that there is more settlement on the plains I’m growing a lot of wheat. It would take a while, but we could probably load up some ships and send it your way. Seriously, it’s quite the place. Nearly all men right now, but maybe someday it’ll quiet down. You should come visit me, I’ll take you up into the mountains. They’re wild and dangerous, but it’s worth it! There’s these wondrous gigantic trees! The husks of the old dead ones are so huge you could live in it! They’re a little hard to describe, but imagine a tree so large that 30 men fingertip to fingertip couldn’t wrap their arms around it. I’ve included a photograph of men and horses on a stump. Unfortunately, the wood isn’t all that strong and they tend to break when they hit the ground. They sure are worth admiring though! Come visit me and I’ll take you to see them! 

I got your invitation to the London Exhibition and I’m going to try to come. Things have been a little rough around here, but I don’t want to bore you with any of that. It’s trying to decide over what to do with all of the new territory I’ve gained, my people can’t agree on things... I’m sure it’ll blow over. It always does, right?

I’ve got some genius things to show you when I see you next. I know you’re going to be impressed.

Best,  
Alfred

***

July 18. 1851  
Crystal Palace London

“The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations. It’s quite the mouthful. But I think that it's quite fitting.” England glanced around the masses that swarmed the Crystal Palace. He could still see clearly in his mind's eye Victoria opening its entrance to the public for the first time, Consort Prince Albert standing just off to her side. The fountain inside the crystal palace had become famous immediately. It was constructed of four tons of pink glace, towering above everyone at twenty-seven feet high. It had quickly become a meeting place, impossible to miss and the spray of the water provided a cool respite from the sweltering crowd. Nearby a place for umbrellas and even a police desk for lost children. Messrs Schweppes had set up various areas where refreshments could be purchased and a fantastic idea had cropped up from it all. For just a simple penny one could go to a waiting room and conveniences, a place to take a break from the press of bodies and chattering. 

Nursing a cup of tea he took a small sip, hoping that it would calm his stomach. He hadn’t been feeling well, although considering that it was so close after that... day it was no surprise. Part of him as glad that America had yet to make an appearance, but at the same time. He shook his head, he would have avoided him regardless. 

“Consider how lovely my display is compared to yours, Arthur. You still have a lack of understanding beauty in architectural forms and turns of phrase,” France drawled in response, tilting his wine glass. 

“Where the hell did you get that? No alcohol is being sold here-”

 

“Such beauty,” France continued on, ignoring him. “With my tapestries. Sevres from porcelain, silks from Lyons, and even enamels and furniture from Limoges. And even the machinery that my people use to create such marvels.”

“I believe that Matthew’s fire engine, the one with the painted panels of scenes of Canadian landscapes. And even that trophy of furs out did you,” England spat back and France fell silent, having no argument. At that England raised a brow but opted to stay silent. “That sculptor, Hiram Power, has created a masterpiece. That statue of a greek slave.”

“All white marble, in her own red velvet tent and wearing nothing but a small chain. It’s almost amazing that one of America’s people came up with it,” A thick accent interrupted.

“Gilbert.” England looked up from crowd watching at the albino who perched himself on the arm of France’s chair. “It's gorgeous,” he admitted before smiling. 

Glaring at France’s wine glass he took a sip of his own tea before continuing, “Although, I am enamored with the whimsical nature of your own exhibit. That small collection of stuffed animals set up in different little ways, you even have kittens partaking of an afternoon tea.” England chuckled. “I am surprised Ludwig agreed with it, even Hessia.”

“Oh they aren’t as awesome as I am to admit that they enjoyed making it as much as I did.” Gilbert laughed. “Didn’t want to have the most obnoxious exhibit. That would not be cool for someone as awesome as I.”

“No that would belong to my brother.” Canada’s quiet voice joined the conversation. “His booth is rather... loud. And he must have overestimated how much room he was going to need...” Settling onto the free cushion of the settee where England was perched, the violet eyed blond glanced at the others before England nodded at him to continue. “A gigantic eagle at the front, holding draperies decorated in stars and stripes and hanging over an organ. I have to say that he’s done some interesting things with his technology though... did you see the repeating revolver? And the threshing machine?”

“And yet, no Alfred.” Spain’s voice joined the fray as he settled on the free arm of France’s chair. “His exhibit is over there, yet, I haven’t seen him since this all began. Didn’t you invite him, Arthur?”

“Yes, I invited him.” England frowned before getting up. “I am going to go walk around for a bit. This event is, after all, being held at my Palace.” 

Placing his cup down England headed into the crowds as his concerns bubbled to the surface. He had indeed invited America. It was nearing the end of July and the other still had not arrived. Glancing around, England admired the structure, he had been so excited to show it to America. The younger blond had bragged in his last letter about his inventions and England had promised to counter with the unveiling of the palace. 

If one were to travel along London’s Knightsbridge you would be able to see a palace made of glass. Taller than the trees around it, and glittering in the sunlight. Nearly one hundred thousand objects displayed over ten miles by over fifteen thousand contributors had been brought to the palace. And he wasn’t here to see it. 

***

“You look peaked,” said Horace Greeley, peering at America as he stopped over Colt’s table of firearms. There were quite a few people gathered around it, admiring the workmanship. Picking up one of the prints, America fiddled with the mold that was used in the factory to machine all of the parts the same way. He glanced up at the newspaperman.

Shrugging, he said, “I’ll be fine. I wanted to come see it. I can’t believe Congress didn’t set aside anything... the government should have contributed... This should have been more spectacular.”

“The government has bigger things to worry about.”

“I know, but I wanted to show off, just a little.” America grinned and Greeley sighed. 

“We need to curb our need to show off to Britain.”

“I think Mr. Hobbs already did that when he picked that lock.” America set down the part and turned around, not wanting to hear Greeley’s opinions regarding too much interest in Britain. He was here after all, so he couldn’t say he wasn’t trying to show off too. Scanning the crowd, America walked over to the edge. Too much space had been rented and benches had been put out to fill some of the space, especially after the British newspapers had made fun of him. America dropped onto a seat, ignoring the glare from one of the British soldiers nearby and idly wondered if England had laughed at him as well. He probably wasn’t even here today, the exhibition had been on for two months now. 

His heart leapt in his throat when he saw messy blond hair moving through the crowd. “Arthur!” he said, sitting on the edge of his seat.

*** 

There was only one person who would call out his name so informally in a public place, and the fact that he recognized the voice helped. Swallowing England turned around, spotting America he felt his stomach churn. He had actually come! However, when seeing the other he was flooded with memories, not all of them right for a public area. He lifted his hand in greeting.

***

America waved back and hopped up from the bench to come over to him. England’s eyes widened a little taking in the glasses. At least America hoped he was just noticing that change and not how pale his skin was or the dark circles under his eyes. The last decade had been rather difficult... he smiled, banishing the thought. He’d finally gotten away from all of that and was determined to enjoy himself. 

“This place is swell!” he said, stopping in front of him. He wasn’t quite sure if he should try and shake England’s hand. Probably, it was the thing to do these days. He offered his hand, giving England a lopsided smile.

“Yes... it is lovely. Thank you.” England nodded slowly. “Glad you could finally make it, Mister Jones,” he added, staring at the other's hand before shaking it. England’s eyes seemed fixated on his spectacles. America couldn’t remember if he’d mentioned them before.

Pushing the frames up his nose, America blushed. “I’ve been busy at home, there’s kind of a situation... do you like the glasses? I got them after I gained Texas.”

“A situation?” England murmured. Reaching up he ran his thumb over one of the arms of eye glasses. “They carry a mature air perhaps.” A frown flashed across his face. America’s heart dropped, he hoped he wouldn’t try to pry.

America’s smile slipped. “I don’t really want to talk about the situation... and thanks! I’ve gotten used to them.” He made a show of looking around. “Do you like them? The inventions I sent? The exhibit is a little plainer than I wanted it to be.” 

“You must be jesting.” England deadpanned, crossing his arms. “It's horribly loud and obnoxious and I had been sure no one was going to out do France in that department.”

“France’s is way fancier than mine! And India’s is filled with jewels! I didn’t even send any paintings... there are some landscapes I would have liked to share...” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve really just got the machines... and the pictures! Did you see the photographs? I brought some more. I’ll show them to you later.”

***

Arching a brow, England watched as the other said this so quickly his words nearly ran together. “Certainly.” A sliver of dissatisfaction ran through England. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting when the man finally showed up, but disappointment rushed through him. It was unreasonable, illogical. He tamped the feeling down.

America fidgeted, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I was wondering if... maybe... do you have time to have dinner with me? I... well, I don’t have lodgings yet, but it would be nice to... uh... talk and things.” Rubbing his shoe on the ground, he looked up from some spot on the floor to England’s face. “It would be nice not to have to try to remember what you sound like.”

There America went again, practically pulling the rug out from under his feet. Once again America had done something that had caught England completely by surprise. “Um, why yes. Of course.” He nodded “I would like that.” 

“Great! I’ll find a place to stay and then... I mean, I don’t really know a good place to go, but you know one right?” He took a big breath. “Maybe tomorrow you can give me tour of this place?”

England frowned. “You said you got my invitation in your last letter, did you actually read it? You’re a visiting nation. I offered you the palace like always... until my personal house here in London is finished of course. Then you would be invited there.”

America watched him for a moment, the silence stretching. “I thought... do you really want me to stay there?” 

England’s scowl only seemed to deepen “You are a guest, you always have been. Although, if you are so vehemently opposed to the idea, which I am starting to wonder if that's the case, I won't stop you from finding an inn.”

“No, no! It’s not like that at all! I just... forget about it.” His fingers caught on England’s sleeve as if he was worried that he would walk away before he could speak again. “Can I get a tour? If we move quick we might be able to avoid Francis before he notices us.” 

“I know why I avoid Francis. But why are you?”

“He’s going to talk my ear off about how Mexico won’t pay him back, like I can do anything about Mexico...” He caught England by the elbow and herded him out of the middle of the hall where they wouldn’t be as easily seen. “Beyond the politics, he’s really nosy! I mean I guess he always was, but he seems keen on me these days. Maybe Matt can distract him...”

“I half think you deserve it.” England muttered under his breath, stumbling when America pulled him a tad to hard. “Strength, boy!”

“Oops. Sorry.” England was frowning and America sighed at his expression. “Buck up, Arthur, I’m here now. And actually I brought you a present!”

England gave him a wary glance “I don't have a gun or a blade on me. It's not something that is possibly going to eat me is it?” America had meant well as a child, but England distinctly remembered the time the boy had brought a whole gaggle of geese into the house because they looked cold. He had been certain he was going to be pecked to death. And another time when Alfred had picked him a ‘pretty bouquet of flowers’ only for it to turn out to be half made up of poison ivy.

America laughed. “No, although I did think about bringing a baby alligator for your zoo. They’re not so bad when they’re 3 feet long. These are both from California, where I wrote that last letter.” He reached in his pocket and brought out two objects, holding them in the palm of his hand. One was a small lump of yellow gold, contrasting sharply with the cone of some plant beside it. The cone was wrinkled and small. “Did you get that picture of the giant trees? This is one of their cones... they probably wouldn’t grow here, but I know you are collecting that sort of thing for your natural history museum.”

“Fascinating.” England murmured sincerely, reaching out to run his fingers over the cone inside America's palm “You are right it probably wouldn't.”

“I was trying to make a study of them, but I didn’t have enough time. They seem very particular. And I still can’t figure out how they get so large! I’m going to show you them one day and some of the other wonders I’ve found.” He gently took England’s hand, turning it over so he could slide the two presents into his hand. He blushed, when England looked up at him. He let his hand fall away and stuffed them both back in his pockets.

“Well, thank you very much,” England said softly before smiling at America. “Thank you,” he said again.

America grinned. “I’ve got another present for you courtesy of Mr. Colt, but we’ll have to wait until we’re somewhere we can shoot though. I heard his pistols were making a splash.”

England's smile disappeared. “Showing off your firepower wasn’t exactly the intention of my exhibition.”

“It’s a technological exhibition isn’t it? Guns are technology.” America frowned. “Everyone is saying this is just about you showing off. Putting the rest of us in our place behind the great British Empire. And from what I hear, Mr. Colt’s firearms are one of the more popular exhibits of mine, so I don’t think your people are disappointed that I brought them.” He crossed his arms.

“I never said they were.”

“Everyone seems to like my inventions. Germany even wrote me a letter about them wanting to know about the manufacturing process. I know you think Pax Brittanica is a fashion, but... you know what? Never mind. I think I’m just tired. If you don’t want to try one out I’m not going to twist your arm about it.” 

Now England was crossing his arms. “I never said that I didn't want to. Don't you go putting words in my mouth. I have not been over to your booth, so I asked,” he said sharply.

“I guess I just figured you would have been over every square inch of this place... I think I’m gonna hold one of these. What do you think? Once I get some more train lines in I could even do it away from the coast... Oh! I heard you’ve got some new train lines that go all over now! I’d like to see them, I think I could do something with narrow gauge rail.” He was jumping from topic to topic, no doubt wanting to keep England talking. 

“You can't avoid the topic of your “situation” forever, no matter how many stories you tell,” England said flatly. He could tell by America’s wince that he’d guessed correctly about what he was trying to do. “But, if you would like, I shall let you show me that gun now.” America was starting to babble and with the useless chatter he had been surrounded by all day from the other nations he had no want of it. He hadn't even been able to see anything new brought in in the last couple of days. America’s stomach growled “Or it seems you want supper first?”

America blinked at him. “When have I ever refused the offer of food?”

“Never.” England stated bluntly before motioning him to follow. “Come along, I know just the place do supper.”

***

America nodded and followed England out of the Crystal Palace, spirits lifting as he caught glances of some of the new inventions and then out into the park. It had been raining when he arrived, but it had cleared and the grass smelt clean and the smoke from the city was dampened. England raised his arm and a hackney cab pulled up and they climbed inside. America watched the city pass by as England leaned back in his seat. 

“I wasn't sure you were going to show. Being so late and all.” England said breaking the silence. “I was worried...” He bit off the last part of his sentence. 

America shifted in his seat. The carriage was narrow and his shoulder was pressed up against England’s. “I wanted to come, but... I’ve had a lot going on. President Taylor died while in office last year and beyond that there’s a lot of... I don’t really want to talk about it. I know what your opinion is going to be.”

“I can't have an opinion if I don't know what to are talking about.” England sighed, annoyance clear in his voice.

“You always have opinions, it’s pretty reliable. Not much is reliable right now.” America didn’t look at him, his fingers curling into the leg of his trousers. Sadness crossed his face. “I’m hoping things will sort themselves out... maybe we can talk about it after we eat?” 

“All right. After supper then.” England relented as the carriage rumbled to a stop across the street from the club. As their driver opened the door England peered outside. “It's going to rain,” he said, before fat drops began to smack the pavement.

Tugging at England’s sleeve, he climbed out of the cab. “We better hurry, then.”

Grabbing his hat, England shoved it onto his head before hurrying across the street as the storm quickened its pace. “Perfect timing, I suppose.” England sighed as the doorman grabbed the door, raising his free arm to take their coats and hats as the host seemingly appeared from thin air. 

“Welcome Lord Kirkland, your usual table I presume? Just one gentleman will be joining you?” the man peered at America before smiling broadly. “Ah, Master Williams pleasure to see you again. Your usual drink?” he asked as he gestured for them to follow. 

“Actually Mister Brandon this is his brother. Mister Jones.” England corrected as they walked through low lighting, smoke, and the boisterous noise of many men.

America followed England through the dinner club, the air thick with smoke from cigars and pipes. Men sat around card tables or leaned over billiard tables in some of the rooms he could see. The dining room was at the back of the building, a wide space lit with wall sconces and the walls covered in mahogany panels. It gave off a sense of masculinity, a gentleman’s club through and through. England greeted several people on the way to their table and America smiled and nodded as he was introduced. He knew he wasn’t going to remember their names, but he doubted they’d remember his either. Then again, many of them did show a touch of curiosity when they heard where he was from. “Matt isn’t as exotic I take it?” he asked when they sat down at their table in a quiet corner of the room.

“Matthew has also been here multiple times. And several of these men have shares in Canadian trade markets and such.” He waved his thanks as the waiter brought a tray of cigars to the table, as well as as an empty tray. “My pipe box is in my coat as usual,” he ordered. “And my usual drink as well. And you?” He looked to America.

“I’ll take the same,” America said, not wanting to have to try and sort through the the list of liquors. “Good ol’ Matt. He came down to dig for gold with me for a little while. I think I ran him off though.”

“You always did bully him.” England frowned.

“You’ve never seen him when he gets riled up though. That’s something.”

“You wanna bet.” England said flatly. “There is more than one reason as to why France is no longer welcome in my bed.”

America gave England a bewildered look. “Did he yell at you or France?”

“No.” He took his pipe as it was delivered back to the table along with two glasses full of steaming spirit. “I’ve taken a particuar liking to Flip as of late.” He picked up his glass, taking a deep whiff and a sip before continuing. “No, he didn’t yell. But I had to replace the vase, a painting, and the rug in his guest room after he set sail the next morning.”

“So you booted France out of your bed to save money on repairs, I get it,” teased America, although he couldn’t help the twinge of pleasure he felt when he knew England was no longer in France’s company. At least not like that. The question that came to the forefront of his mind was dangerous, the question wondering if anyone was in England’s bed. America bit his lip. That would bring up questions of the last time they’d been alone together and he wasn’t ready to face it. Not yet. He took a sip of the liquor, feeling the warmth spread through his limbs. 

“Oh, sod off.” England scowled, sticking his pipe back in his mouth. He glared at the other before asking, “Have you ever had a Flip? Do you like it?” He turned pink. “It satisfies a sweet tooth.”

“I like it. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it before, but never had it. Out on the trail everyone is mostly fond of whiskey. It keeps well.” He took another sip.

“Drank a fair amount on the seas.” England nodded. “Anything you particularly wanted for supper?” he asked as he spotted their waiter heading back their way. 

“Anything that’s good. I’m starving.”

“We are in my country. That’s a long list,” England said quickly, narrowing his eyes at the other as if daring him to make some smart ass remark. 

“Have you and Master Jones decided on what to have this evening, Lord Kirkland?” the waiter asked with a smile.

“My usual. Roast Beef and yorkshire pudding. For him as well.” England nodded at the man who left with their orders swiftly.

America considered saying something, just to watch England’s reaction, but he was too hungry to complain. Besides, he’d never met a piece of beef he didn’t like so England would have had to do something pretty special to ruin it. “I met China by the way. He’s pretty sore at you for taking what’s his name? Hong Kong?” When he lifted his drink to take another sip one of the headaches struck him again. Setting down the glass rapidly before he dropped it, he rubbed at his forehead. They’d been getting worse. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that it wouldn’t make him dizzy again. Not now!

When another sharp jab didn’t come England frowned in surprise, yet the frown disappeared as he watched the other wince. “Are you okay, Alfred?” Setting his own drink gown he reached across the table to grasp the other's forearm.

“It’s nothing just a headache. It comes and goes.” He kept his eyes closed until the pain subsided. Slowly, he opened them again, adjusting to the light. Taking in England’s look of concern, he said, “I’m all right.”

“You always were a shite liar. I shall take a wild guess. Is this is related to what you won't talk about?”

“It may have something to do with it.” Now that his hands weren’t so shaky he reached for the glass of flip and drained it. He hoped the rum part of the drink would do its work.

“Tell me, Alfred.”

“My people are just angry at each other is all. I’m handling it. It just... gives me headaches.” Maybe that would satisfy him.

“Over the slavery issue. You are correct that I have opinions about that.” England leaned back. “Have you started blacking out yet?” he asked, trying to appear nonchalant. 

America grit his teeth. He didn’t know how to work that one out at all. Not without throwing half of his people into open rebellion. “And the tariffs, that’s why they’re mad at you by the way... wait, blackouts... why do you ask?”

“I’ve suffered more than one civil war. There are symptoms. Headaches of that intensity is a normal warning. So is blacking out.” 

“It’s not civil war. I’m handling it.” He felt emotion well up, but he stuffed it back down. The food arrived and he picked up his fork, not intending to speak again until his plate was clean.

“I didn’t say it was civil war, yet.” England sighed as their empty glasses were replaced with new ones. Picking up his glass he favored the alcohol as he stared at America.

Glancing up at him, America said, “Can we drop it? I’m fine, it’ll blow over just like when Massachusetts threatened to secede. They didn’t mean it.”

“If you say so,” England said, the note of disbelief strong in his voice. He instead turned to his own plate, cutting into it with gusto. Taking a rather large bite of the roast beef smeared in the pudding a low, throaty groan of delight escaped him. Relief spread across America’s face. He set on his plate with slightly more haste than was polite, but noone seemed to notice.

Silence fell over the pair as they turned their attentions to their plates. It hinged on the thin line between polite and uncomfortable. England cleared his plate rather quickly, surprising America since he was usually so worried about decorum. It took another few minutes and the arrival of a fresh drink and a platter of desserts. Lowering the glass from his lips, England handed it to the waiter, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

“Perfect timing James, as always,” he said as the wait staff member uncovered two generous helpings of bread and butter pudding. “It may be a poor man’s dessert, but it is one of my favorites unless companies requires a fancy dish. I hope you don’t mind.”

America didn’t mind it at all. It didn’t take long at all until he was scraping the dish clean. “Are you ready to try out a Colt Revolver?” he asked as the table was cleared. It was growing later in the afternoon, but there should still be plenty of light if they didn’t need to travel far.

“I agreed did I not?” England nodded before taking another bite. “As long as we don’t draw too much attention.”

“There must be a place to shoot pistols. Where do your soldiers practice? You could order them all off or something. Unless there’s private grounds somewhere.” 

Moving around his last bite of pudding, England looked thoughtful. “Well... the land I purchased to put my house on... the builders are currently working on a wing of the palace today. There is an area of complete dirt set aside for what is going to be my rose garden...” Lifting the piece to his mouth he chewed thoughtfully. “I suppose we could do it there.”

“Excellent.” America grinned. “Lead the way.”

***

It was a short cab ride away, the horses hooves clopping on the cobblestones. Where England was building was on the edge of a park, the house partially framed. Together they looked for some bottles left behind by the work crews to use as targets. America showed England how to prime the revolver. The style, while not completely new, did have a few quirks that one shot pistols didn’t have. Handing it to him, he said, “Give it a go.”

Weighing the gun in his hand England lifted it to eye level, his left eye closing instinctually. Pulling the trigger he rocked back on his heels lightly. “It’s certainly got a kick,” he muttered when he missed the bottle. It took two more tries before he finally shattered one. 

“Not bad, but you can’t fire it like it’s from a century ago. The kick will throw off your aim if you let your hand drop when you pull the trigger.” He stepped closer to England’s back, putting his hands on his hips to turn him slightly. Leaning in he put his hand on England’s steadying his arm and sighting down at the pistol. “Now pull.”

You usually say push in this position. The filthy thought came quickly to England's mind and he swallowed thickly, feeling a blush creep up his neck as America's breath hit his skin. Ridiculous. Concentrating hard, he focused on the target and pulled the trigger. Hitting the bottle on his first shot this time. Inhaling deeply he gave a mute nod.

Now that he was touching him, America didn’t seem to want to let go. England cleared his throat to clue him to that he was there for too long. The last time that they’d been together came back in clarity. The taste of him, the way he’d kissed him back. Would he...? In the years that had passed since that afternoon in England’s smoking room, he had wondered. True, the drug could be used as an aphrodisiac, but still...

England shifted a bit in his arms, so that he could look at him, his brow furrowed with concern. America looked back at him as though he were lost in thought, questions flitting behind his eyes and then settling one one in particular. He leaned close, most of the way, his lips just brushing England’s. 

They were supposed to be shooting the gun. That's what they had come out here for. And now just like back in his smoking room years ago, America was kissing him. Or at least trying to. It was like his brain was short circuiting once again. “When have you ever been shy?” England breathed before practically knocking the boy off his feet as he leaned back, kissing him firmly, the empty gun dropping into the dirt.

Stumbling back a few steps, America held onto him, arms wrapped tight around his waist. All hesitation was gone as he adjusted his hold, pressing closer and deepening the kiss. Tilting his head back he allowed America to steal his breath away, inexpert and sloppy as the kiss was. Even through their layers of clothing he could feel the boy's body heat, hot against his back and in America's large hands as one splayed across his belly, the other finding it's way into his hair. A groan slipped from England's mouth as the hand in his hair tightened. For being so inexperienced the young nation seemed to have a natural talent. 

Once again a lazy drizzle began to make its way down from the heavy clouds and England found himself caring little as his clothes were about to be ruined. He twisted in the other’s arms so he could wrap his arms around his neck, drag him closer. It hit him in the stomach. This was what he’d been missing since he first caught sight of America that morning. He had wanted another kiss. It wasn’t until he broke the kiss to catch his breath that he realized how heavy it had begun raining. The water had caught on the lenses of America’s glasses, blurring his eyes behind them. “We should, uh, get out of the rain shouldn’t we?” America said.

The end of the kiss and the words seemed to bring all of England's senses back at once. Lurching away from America he moved back several steps, staring at the other in horror. What the hell am I doing? Why! What? This is America for Christ’s sake! Looking anywhere but the other he tried to gather his thoughts. “Ah, yes... rain,” he stuttered.

America’s shoulders drooped as he stepped around England to fetch the pistol lying in what was quickly becoming mud. He pulled out a handkerchief and began wiping the worst of the dirt away, his back to England. “It won’t work very well until it dries out... we should go back. I understand if you don’t want me to stay at the palace anymore.”

“Thats absurd. You're a guest, you're staying.” England said quickly, brushing his sopping bangs out of his eyes. Act normal. Act normal. Cramming his hat back onto his head England all but stormed around the other and towards the main street. “Come now!” he ordered. “Before we catch our death out here!”

***

Following, America didn’t look at him as he flagged another cab to take them back to the palace. When they arrived his rooms had already been set aside. England was being fussed over by a lady in waiting and he didn’t notice when America discreetly asked a footman to take him to his rooms. As soon as he was alone, he dropped down to the floor wrapping his arms around his knees. He pressed his face against his damp arms, frowning when his glasses got in the way. He pulled them from his face and let them dangle from his fingertips. “So much for that,” he said, voice muffled in his wet shirt. Shivering, he finally made himself get up and go to the dressing room to find something dry to wear.

***

When Arthur finally managed to get himself free of the fussing of his personal staff and dealing with a few political issues, England was mortified to find that nearly three hours had passed. Walking swiftly down the halls, England beelined for the guest chambers where America had been placed. Stopping just outside the door he raised his fist to knock. Only finding himself unable to do so. The events of the afternoon flooded through his mind and embarrassment chased after. How was he supposed to talk to the other now? Swallowing, an idea popped into his head that England physically recoiled from. Not possible. The need to turn back and return to his own quarters was strong “Don't be so French. You’re his host!” England muttered to himself before knocking loudly.

“Who is it?” called America from within the room.

“Who do you think it is?” England said flatly.

A pause. “I’m indisposed.”

“I already let you get away with it at supper. We need to talk about this, Alfred. Now either you can let me in or I will force my way in.” 

“Give me a moment.” It took more than a minute and England was ready to force the door, when the knob turned. America was pale, his glasses slightly askew. “Come in if you must.” He left the door half open and walked slowly to the sitting couch in the front room, and sinking into the seat. Laying his head back, he closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, I was just a little dizzy.” There were a few couch cushions on the floor. Had America been laying on them?

“This isn't just a simple headache,” England said quietly, going back to the door and waving down a passing servant. “I need a cloth, a bucket of hot water and a two hot teas... shot of brandy in both,” he muttered before waving the woman off. Entering the room he closed the door behind him. 

“You know I don’t like tea...” America griped from the couch. “President Fillmore said it would be fine if I left, but something must be happening... they’d promised they were going to try and work out the problems in Congress.” Leaning over carefully he fetched the pillow from the floor and held it tight against his chest. 

“Yes, but the tea will help heat the brandy, dilute it as well but still allow it to numb your head. So hush, we don’t need to talk politics right now,” England scolded as the door opened quickly, two women walking in. “Just place the bucket by his feet at the settee and the tea on the small table next to him.” England ordered. Thanking them as they left, England walked over to the table, grabbing a cup and gesturing for America to take it. “Drink it. It will help. Same as the tonic I gave you and you protested as a child.”

“For the record, I’m only doing this because I don’t feel well,” America grumbled, picking up the cup and putting it to his lips. He wrinkled his nose and drank. “You should have put something in it so I could sleep...” He was grateful for the high arms, it gave him something to lay his head against.

England eyed him very carefully, hesitating. Kneeling down her grabbed the bucket and pushed it over to the other. “Here. Off with your socks, and feet in the water.” He swallowed. The last thing he wanted to do was be close to the other man right now, especially with all of these confused emotions running through him. However, the concern that welled inside him smothered all of the other emotions as he watched America’s pained expression. 

Leaning up slightly, America bent over to unlace his shoes, obviously too tired of feeling poorly to protest. It seemed an age until he could pull up his pant leg and slide his socks down over his feet. He winced when he touched the water. England tested it with a hand. It felt hot, but maybe America was chilled as well? Once again England hesitated, nervousness filling his chest, but he crushed it. Loosening his collar England sat on the other cushion of the settee. “Finish it, and then stay laying on your side, feet in the water.” With a slow inhale, he tapped his lap. “And lay down. Head here.” 

America looked at him for a moment over the rim of the tea cup, setting it back down on the end table he shifted so that he could lay down. Settling against England’s thigh, he closed his eyes. “You don’t have to do this because you feel sorry for me.”

“I could easily push you off this couch,” England sniped. Reaching down he pressed the tips of his fingers into America's temples, rubbing in small circles. “Your griping is completely unnecessary.”

America sighed, the lines between his eyebrows smoothing as he relaxed. “That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly. You probably have better things to do than take care of me. You’re probably thinking I should have stayed home.”

“Don’t insult me,” England muttured. “I invited you. It was my choice. And when have you cared about what was gentlemanly or not?”

“I don’t, but you do.” He relaxed further. It was obvious he was still in pain, but the warmth was bringing some of the color back into his face. “You know me, rough and frontier.”

“I know what it is like to be young,” England countered. “There was a reason I would not allow you to travel the seas with me.”

“I would have settled for you being on land with me more,” America muttered. 

England sighed “I'll tell you now like I told you then. I didn't have the choice. I was building the world's largest navy. And now that you are expanding your borders you know how time consuming it is. I was busy becoming the world's largest empire. Dethroning Roma Antiqua for that title.”

“I know.” America lifted one of his hands, bumping England’s cheek with the back of his fingers. “I just wanted you.”

England's hands stilled and he shook his head. “I-” He shook his head again. “I can't-” He fell silent, focusing on his task.

Letting his hand drop, America settled it back on the pillow he still clutched to his chest, sadness crossing his face. For a moment, England could nothing but stare at the stricken look. Soon enough, he drifted off to sleep. Watching America succumb to the brandy and exhaustion, England was glad for the quiet. Although, now that America was asleep, his thoughts were so loud. What was he to do? America had kissed his twice now and both times England couldn't help, but respond in turn. 

Dragging his hand over his face he inhaled shakily. This wasn't right. All the dreams and the emotions that had suddenly slapped him in the face one day. What was he supposed to do with it all? Normally he just invited the other to bed, fucked the other senseless, and called it a night. Outside the door he had briefly considered making the offer, but the mere thought had turned his stomach. He couldn't do that with America. 

Dropping his head back he heaved a heavy sigh, staring at the ceiling. Why couldn't he just take him to bed and get it all over with? Curiosity and lust satisfied for both parties. France’s prodding came to the front of his mind, there was no way that he could have been right. America couldn’t possibly be in love with him. They were just familiar with each other was all. A pop of elation and hope snapped in his chest, surprising him. His mind churned over France's words, over America's actions. Emerald eyes widened. 

Impossible. 

America had developed an infatuation for him.

Head snapping forward he stared down at America's sleeping face. He would be daft to not realize it after what had transpired this afternoon. Why? How? Chewing on his bottom lip nervously, England threaded his fingers through America's hair. It wouldn't last long. Merely a temporary inclination, because he was becoming a nation and England was the most familiar out of them all. That thought hurt a bit. Who else would America choose? England swore at the list of candidates to take America to bed flitted through his mind. Curses, was he becoming infatuated with the other in return? Poppycock. He was just glad the other didn't hate him any longer. America’s hatred had hurt the most.

Head dropping against the back of the couch, England was unsure how long he mentally battled with himself, watching the fireplace cast shadows along the ceiling. Yes, the infatuation would be temporary. It was something they would both have to ride out. It was because they were talking again. Not like they were in love with each other. Perhaps one day it would accelerate into into a filthy shag and they could be done with it all. England felt a sense of release coupled with familiarly fall over him like a warm blanket. He could ride it out. He’s suffered his own infatuations in the past. America was just at that age. Allowing his eyes to slide shut England also allowed himself to succumb to sleep's sweet embrace.


	13. Jack and Jill

July 1851  
London Exhibition

The mirror was bright, shining almost. He walked closer, touching his fingers to the glass expecting to leave fingerprints. He glanced up looking at his own eyes. That wasn’t the expression on his face was it? He touched his own cheek. No, he wasn’t smiling. Then why...?

I’m here.

No. Go away. You don’t exist.

Not yet, but if things keep up the way they are... who knows what will happen. His reflection reached out, grabbing him by the throat.

“No!” Jerking out of the dream, America sat up. He clutched at his chest, trying to will air back into his lungs. He could still see his reflection in his mind’s eye, looking back at him with anticipation, laughing at him. “Damn it...” he said, pulling off his glasses and putting the heel of his hands against his eyes.

A twitch behind him. Warm hands on his shoulders. “What’s wrong?!”

He swiveled around, confused for a moment. “England?” He slipped his glasses back on over his nose. “It was... just a nightmare I guess. You don’t have to look so startled.”

England relaxed, hands leaving America's shoulders to brush away the hair that was sticking to America's face. “That's good.” 

America swallowed. “I’ll be fine, really.” His fingers itched to touch England back, but he didn’t want that, right?

***

“You said that last night at supper then came back here and practically collapsed. The rain probably didn't help,” England pointed out bluntly, heart still fluttering from being startled out of his deep sleep. He took America’s chin in hand, looking to make sure his eyes were still clear. Then he let his eyes drift. It seemed to be a day of realizations for England as he found himself struck with surprise and embarrassment as his gaze settled on America’s mouth. The boy had kissed him twice. Twice he had started things. The lad was out doing him at his own game. England scowled, staring at the other hard. It was a bloody challenge. He wasn’t called the Lord of Eros for nothing .

“It comes and goes. I feel better now,” America added. He smiled at him, a little lopsided and not entirely sincere.

“Haven't I told you that you've always been a shite liar.” England sighed, a thought crossing his mind. It was America's fault after all. Gripping the other's chin between his thumb and forefinger he guided him forward, this time being the one to initiate the kiss. America started, but then kissed him back with eagerness.

Yesterday must have been a fluke. England's mind supplied. The boy really wasn't that good at this. But he would learn. Running his tongue along the seam of America's lips he coaxed the younger's mouth open, eliciting a small whine from the wheat haired blond. A small smile of success lifted the corners of England's mouth as his hands ran the length of his partner's spine, urging the other closer. It was like handling a skittish animal, he couldn't move too fast or be loud, it might scare the other off. America was a quick learner, following his lead for a moment and then trying to take charge the next. He shifted, coming as close as the awkward position on the couch would allow. Slowly, he reached up to touch England’s cheek, the other hand twining into the collar of his shirt. 

Maybe we should go smoke. England sighed, grabbing America's hand on his cheek and using it pull him closer. Leaving his mouth, England bit just beneath the other's ear, hoping the other would get the hint. Lazy snogging was great curled up amongst sheets with another after a night of debauchery, but with America's continued attempts at physical advancement England was growing impatient. He was rather fine looking, it would be enjoyable.

He could feel America’s pulse speed up under his lips and the young man gasped, adjusting his position against England once again as the other pulled him closer. Wrapping one arm around England’s neck, he straddled England on the couch. Perhaps not a lost cause, after all, England thought as the hand on the small of America’s back slid lower. He pressed a kiss to the side of England’s head. England nipped at him again, a surprised sound bubbling up out of America’s throat. 

Teeth and tongue began making quick work of America's neck when loud knocking reverberated through the room. “Alfred! You have to be awake now.” Canada’s annoyed voice came muffled from the other side. “Did you forget the walk we were supposed to go on this morning?”

America leaped to his feet, flush across his face as he put distance between them. He tried to straighten the collar of his shirt, damp from England’s attention. He did his best. England stood up and ran his hands smoothly down the front of his waistcoat and trousers, an annoyed expression on his face. “You better skedaddle. I mean, Matt’s not really a gossip, but...” America said. He gave England a pleading look as his brother pounded on the door again. 

“Did you just ask me to run away in my own palace?” England scowled. “Absolutely not.” He frowned and headed for the door pulling it open. “Good morning, Matthew.” He smiled before heading to his own rooms to change.

***

America watched England go, feeling flabbergasted. Canada turned to him, an eyebrow raised. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I thought you said you weren’t interested in just taking what you could get.” 

“It’s not like that!” America huffed, storming off towards his bedroom to change. “Give me a minute and I’ll be ready to go with you.” He could hear Canada’s exasperated sigh before the door even closed. Flustered, in more ways than one, America pulled off his necktie and examined the spot England had been so intent on, the skin a little red. Trying to forget about it lest the rest of his body get ideas, he dressed quickly and rejoined his brother.

***

Buckingham Palace - England’s Rooms

“I am tempted to turn you into Scotland Yard for stalking,” England snapped as he entered his sitting room to take in the site of France lounging on his couch.

“I was wondering why you had not returned to your rooms late last night. I was looking for someone to drink with and to my great surprise, I find you missing. When I inquired with a maid she said she’d brought two drinks to the room of a Mr. Alfred F. Jones. If you are just returning now...” He clucked his tongue, wagging his finger. “You lied to me Arthur, mon amie.”

“I have not and I am not your friend!” England hissed, moving into his bedroom to change into new clothes leaving the door slightly ajar.

“So you spent all night in mon cher Alfred’s rooms, but did absolutely nothing?”

“Precisely,” England huffed, “And who are you to call him ‘my dear’?”

“I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t care.”

 

“Dear, young Alfred has gotten rather bold of late... his feelings for you are still not clear?”

“They are. I am aware he has an infatuation with me.”

France looked at him as if he was the daftest person on the planet. “Arthur...”

“He was feeling ill,” England continued, as he dropped his clothes onto a pile on the floor before proceeding to wash his face. He hesitated, pulling on his trousers before continuing. “He's having headaches... nightmares... and I wouldn’t be surprised if he has started blacking out.”

A grunt of understanding came from the Frenchman before he spoke “He’s a little young to have a civil war, no?”

“He had a much different start than we did,” England pointed out, tying his cravat. “He wasn't stranded and alone, pillaged... molested by great countries such as Roma Antiqua. Russia has had it closer to what we had, despite being one of the younger nations.” Buttoning up his jacket he eyed himself in the mirror before stopping. The thought of civil war coming for America made his stomach turn. He needed to change the subject. “Obviously, it cannot be to the death... but shall we have a duel?”

“Of steel?” France’s interest was piqued. 

“Of course steel. It would cause an international incident should I shoot you in my gardens.” England grinned haughtily at his reflection, undoing his buttons and yanking off his cravat. Glancing in the mirror he took note of France getting to his feet, partially disrobing as well as he entered the doorway, a leather tie pulled from his pocket to tie his hair back.

“I never have stood down from a challenge.”

“Lying Frog.”

“Cocky Rosbif.”

***

“What’s out in the northwest territory?” America asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. Maybe if they talked about something else, he could prevent the questions that he knew were on the tip of Canada’s tongue. Questions about England. America had bit the inside of his cheek in order to not ask Canada about France. He knew he was here. 

“Trees. Rocks. Birds. It’s really beautiful.”

“Prettier than my west?”

“If I said yes would you accept it?” Their eyes met and America saw the playful challenge in Canada’s eyes. 

“No way!” America laughed and Canada smiled. They had left the halls of the castle to go out into the summer air. It felt good to be outside, far more preferable to the indoors. America listened, interjecting here and there when Canada told him about something he’d seen before. It was when they made a turn around a hedge that they heard the sound. A clanging. As they grew closer it was accompanied by voices.

“Oh dear...” Canada said.

“What?”

“Hopefully they don’t hurt themselves this time...” Canada muttered, walking ahead of America to move further into the garden.

***

“You’ve gotten rusty Francis!” England barked, lunging after the other nation who brought up his sword in defense. 

“Blasphemy. I just haven't dueled with anything other than a Épée in years.”

“I say hogwash to that. These new dueling styles making a mockery of what a real duel is.” England huffed, raising his sword, beginning to circle as his opponent did. “Pay attention to the steel that could run you through Francis!” he snapped as he noticed Francis winking at a few of the women that had gathered to watch their little show and now were giggling.. Brandishing his sword he leaped once more at the Frenchman, swearing as the other managed to off balance him. Tripping back a few feet he blocked Francis’s swing before it hit his elbow.

“Times are changing.” Francis sighed dramatically as England sneered at him, before offering a bow to the women in turn who curtsied. “After all, when was the last time a good broadsword was brought to battle?”

“Broadsword, huh?” England grunted as the clang of steel met the air as they lunged in tandem. Two sets of pale arms shook, shining with sweat, visible through sleeves rolled up past their elbows. Knocking each other back the pair stared at each other as they readjusted themselves before leaping back into the fray of just themselves. 

***

America knew he was staring, especially when Canada grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to one of the unoccupied benches that surrounded the small courtyard created by the hedges. He took his seat on the stone as England and France continued. Canada’s silent disapproval radiated from the seat next to him. “Do they do this often?”

“More of late. It becomes a problem for me either way. Either I’m mopping up England when he overdoes it, or I’m mopping up France.” America raised an eyebrow at him and Canada blushed. “Not like that.”

“Usually?” America offered as a conclusion to the sentence. Canada’s flush deepened.

“No. Not here where England might find out.”

America leaned back in his seat, watching England cross swords. He’d never really seen him duel with a blade. England had tried to teach him fencing once as a sort of gentleman’s sport, but blades had been rapidly falling out of fashion by the time he’d been big enough to wield one. Prussia hadn’t bothered when he was mentoring him, explaining that if he could only master one thing it should be guns since they could only get more accurate, and knives, since he doubted they would ever be completely useless. He glanced at Canada, whose brow was furrowed in concern. “I think England might suspect.”

“About?”

“How you feel about France.” Horror crossed Canada’s face and he looked like he might run away, so America put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think he knows anything exists, only that you care more about France than you should.”

“Merde,” Canada muttered leaning back in his seat. 

“He doesn’t approve by the way.”

“Of course not! Why would he?” Canada shook his head. “Let’s just watch.” America nodded and they turned back to the spectacle.

***

“Speaking of broadswords.” France drawled as they met face to face again, each struggling to throw each other off balance.

“Absolutely not! We do not have the time to get a set ready and then find an area that is suitable. Plus, fighting with broadswords looks absolutely ridiculous.” England shot the idea down, scowling when the blue-eyed blond huffed in annoyance. Leaping back from each other when it was obvious neither was going to falter they began to circle once more. England on his toes and France crouched. 

 

“Fine no broadswords... but how about this. Whoever wins gets to choose the next challenge.” Eyeing France’s stance England sighed. “That means if you win we shall be going hand to hand. Your specialty of course”

“And if you win you will be choosing the miserable bow and arrow.”

“Of course. No nat-one has ever bested me in drawing from their quiver or hitting so many accurate targets.” England grinned, rolling his sword in a taunting circle. Free hands clasping behind them both men straightened, raising their swords, bodies rigid. 

“The winner of that battle gets what they please.”

“Within reason”

“Within reason, of course. Deal?”

“Deal!” It was like setting fire to a powder keg. Steel screeched and screamed as blade met blade. Both men shouting at each other in old native tongue. Heeled shoes sliding across the grass beneath their feet, crushing it like a siege on a town... Two bodies experienced and chock full of muscle memory, curved, bent and uncoiled in rapid succession. Sweat slicked brows were sticky with perspiration and stray hair. Chests rose rapidly with heavy breathing, shirts clinging to war built frames. A violent dance, bodies nearly making contact only to leap away moments later. Wicked grins wet with droplets of sweat, pivoting hips and bunching calves. It had started instantaneously and was over in the blink of an eye, a blade whistling through the air and a body hitting the ground with a thud.

“Do you yield?” the question came between gasps of breath. Emerald staring down into turquoise. England grinned pridefully down at Francis who in turned glared up the blade pointed at his chest. 

“Yes, I yield,” he panted. A small round of applause erupted around them from the spectators that had gathered around the small sitting garden the pair had opted to duel in.

***

Canada was being twitchy and America knew that he wanted to go over and help France off the ground. Sighing, he stood up so that Canada could follow. When they reached the pair, he offered a hand to France to pick him up off the ground. France looked past him at Canada for a moment but then took it, getting to his feet.

“You’re such a good boy, Amerique, not throwing your big brother down in the dirt like this one over here.” He leaned on America’s shoulder for a moment, straightening his hair. “Perhaps I am too exhausted by him to continue.”

England stared at America, anger crossing his face. He handed off his sword as one of his gentlemen rushed forward to get it. “Absolutely not, you made an offer and I agreed. Therefore, you shall follow through Francis,” he said flatly. Walking past America he ordered men to get the archery range set up. “Who knew both you were trying to get in Francis’s pants,” he muttered under his breath before turning to Canada. “And Matthew. After I embarrass Francis I have not forgotten that lesson I promised you.” A light of excitement lit up Canada’s features and he nodded mutely. 

America blushed and shot England a dirty look as he sauntered away. “If I’d wanted that I would have already had it,” he grumbled. 

“It appears I have gotten you in trouble, Amerique, interesting, I have never seen him be jealous before...” He shrugged. “I also heard you were ill last night,” said France.

“It’s nothing.”

“Arthur has never been the nursemaid type...” America shrugged him off. Hurrying after England, he smiled at Canada as he passed. Canada gave him a grateful look. 

“Hey, what’s this about a lesson?” America asked, catching up with England.

Arching a brow England looked at him. “Oh now I am the center of your attention? It's just something between your brother and I. Nothing for you to be concerned with.”

“You don’t have to be petty.” America huffed. They walked in silence for a few steps. “I’d never seen you fence before now.”

“I'm not being petty, this is just something between Matthew and I... and no, I suppose you wouldn't have.”

“I guess it never really occurred to me that you were ever without a gun in your hand... but I guess that armor you wore when I was really little was for something right?” The loose collar of England’s shirt was distracting, considering what England had started that very morning. If they hadn’t been interrupted...? America blushed. “So, what did France offer you that you’re requiring him to pay upon?”

“Winner chooses the next challenge and then that winner gets a favor out of the other.” He grinned “He's got no chance.”

“Remind me to be careful when I make bets with you. I’d win though, of course,” teased America.

“Boy.” England leveled him with a glare “How about you pick up a bow and put your actions where your mouth is?” he challenged as they arrived in another part of the garden where the men were finishing up a temporary archery range.

America swallowed, he could count the times he’d actually tried to shoot a bow on one hand. He was a really good shot with a firearm, but the bow had been an old weapon for as long as he could remember. How hard could it be? It was just drawing it back. Aiming would be similar right? “What do I get if I win?”

“Anything you want.” England crossed his arms. “If this were a gun competition I would be worried, but with bows and arrows?” He scoffed. America shrugged. 

“Is that what you want if you win?” 

“Anything I want?”

“Sure.” 

He gestured to the set up bow and quivers. “Guests first. While I wait on Francis.”

America stepped up to the target, picking up the bow and one of the arrows. He wracked his mind to remember when he’d seen people do this before. Finally feeling like he had a good handle on it, he lifted it, trying to aim the way he would a rifle. It was a little awkward, but the concept had to be the same, he reasoned. He pulled a little too hard on the bowstring at first, the wood groaning, but he lessened the pressure and then released. The arrow clipped the edge of the target going into the hedge. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so easy after all…

***

England watched silently, wincing as he listened to the bow. Motioning for the other to hand it over, he took it carefully. Running his hands over the wood he silently apologized. He always did feel bad about handing bows over to novices. Grabbing an arrow from the quiver he notched it, briefly aiming for the target. The muscles in his core, shoulders, and arms tensed in memory, hips turning and legs sliding apart Pulling back he turned his head to look at America “Simple.” He smiled releasing the arrow. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the arrow bury itself in the bullseye. Lowering his arms he handed the bow over.

***

Taking it back, America stepped back to the spot. He’d been watching, taking cues from where England set his feet. Taking a similar stance he readied the arrow and drew back again. He was a little low this time, but the arrow sank into the outer ring of the target at the base. When he caught a glance of the surprise on England’s face, he couldn’t help but smile at him. “Did you forget that I’m a fast learner?”

“Get cocky when you can out shoot me.” England shouldered the quiver and took back the bow. It was mere moments before the quiver was empty, all but one arrow hitting its target in rapid succession. “I fought Roma Antiqua with a bow.” England sighed lowering the bow to stare down the range. “Once you can best me on the range, we can move to horseback.”

“You haven’t seen me on a horse in a while. I’m really good with them now.” He took the stance, adjusting his aim a little higher than he had the last time. Shoot. He’d overcorrected and now the arrow had struck too high. Since England had fired all of his, he picked up another, this one was even closer to the center.

“You can shoot a bow and arrow from horseback?” England arched his brow

“Not yet, but I bet I ride better than you can. Mexico has been adapting Spain’s saddles and I’ve got my own spin on it too.” He took aim for another arrow and inched it a little closer to the bullseye. 

“Of course,” England muttered looking around to see if France had arrived, annoyance growing on his features.

“What were you like when the Roman Empire was around? You would have been really young, right?” He tried for another shot, but this time it went a little wide. Frowning, he stared at the target. He would have been able to get it all through the center if it had been a Brown Bess.

“Very young.” England nodded. “My people were still in tribes when the Romans arrived,” he said quietly. “Being invaded back then was very different then it is today... rape and pillage is a very accurate term, and not only for the humans... Prederian, hiviziken me on Brythin.” He sighed, a sad smile taking over his features “I really miss Togodumnus and Caratacus at times.”

America paused, lowering the bow. “Who were they?”

“Two brothers who met the Romans as the came in, faced them off. Togodumnus died fighting them when Caratacus went to fetch the rest of the tribe... the Romans still won.” England shook his head. 

“I think I read a story about that in one of the books you sent me a long time ago.” He looked far away now, lost in a memory from centuries ago. “But then he went away right?”

“Over three hundred years later. It took a good long time before we were able to eradicate them from my shores.”

“That’s a long time.”

“I used to remember how many Romans I had killed with a bow. Used to keep track.” he shrugged “Lost count over the years.”

“Is that why you wanted to be an empire?”

“That was part of the reason. I was the smallest nation, with no support. And I was angry. Angry at being...” He hesitated. “Violated, mutilated, you name it really. I wanted to protect my people from the vile things that had happened to their ancestors. And that meant growth. It so happens that I did it alone and I just never stopped.”

“And now the sun never sets on your empire.” America turned away to look over at the target. It was in moments like these that he never knew how to feel about him. He’d been part of that conquest across the globe. England still commanded Canada. More nations than he could even name across the globe. An empire and an empire... what would that even look like? He covered for his awkwardness by trying the bow again, the arrow completely going wide and sticking into the soil.

“See, what did I tell you about getting cocky? Lucky for you that it's only the two of us here. I suppose Francis and Matthew would never let you hear the end of of it.” England sighed. Stepping up behind America he notched an arrow on the boy's bow. Matching his arms below the others he adjusted him. “Your elbow’s low... it needs to be high. No, not that high. There we go.” Sliding one foot between America's, he pushed the other’s legs further apart. “Your stance is too narrow. Open your hips up. There we go. Now draw back the arrow and release.”

Concentrate! He bit his lip and let the arrow fly. It hit near the center of the target. He laughed. “Told you I could do it!”

“With me pressed up against you to guide you.” His voice was low, breath warm on the back of America’s neck. A shiver crept down his spine. England’s hands resettled on his waist. He could imagine England in the past, pirating or leading armies. True, he’d only really seen him in his current incarnation of posh noble, but there had been glimpses over time. Leaning forward more England exhaled against America's nape. “Think you can do it again?” 

America had to remember how to breathe, his mind completely drawn away from the weapon in his hands and to the way, England was pressed up against his back. America had to lean over slightly to pull another arrow for the bow. England hadn’t made a move backward at all. With a flush creeping up his neck, he went about it anyway. The motion pressed his backside against England’s hips and he felt a quiver pass through England. He stood setting the arrow, almost feeling England’s hands on his arms once again, although they were still firmly planted on his hips. He took a deep breath and released. The arrow joined the bunch near the center of the target. “See, didn’t need your help that time.” He turned in England’s hold, eyes catching his. He couldn’t be imagining the flush on England’s cheeks, right? The way his lips were slightly parted. America tilted his head, wanting to kiss him, but England stepped back.

“Beginners luck,” England said, rubbing at his cheek. “Do it blindfolded astride a horse like (Ae)thelbald use to require me and then I’ll be impressed.” He grinned. “You remember your favorite story hero as a child. The one who you made me tell you about so many times. How could I tell so many stories about his adventures and in such detail too?” The way England enunciated the word child cooled America’s blood somewhat. England had always been good at that, knocking him down from the status of an equal.

“I’d have to practice, but I’m sure I could do it,” he said. He’d run out of arrows, so he started to walk down to the target. He grasped the shafts and began to pull them loose. “I’m guessing you were there, then?”

“I doubt that you would manage the feat. Francis hasn't even caught up yet. And of course I was. Though Maid Marion was a very sweet lady, the part of the tale where I married her is complete poppycock.” He crossed his arms.

“Are you trying to say the Robin Hood stories are about you?” America laughed, sure England was joking.

England stared at him silently, no trace of humor in his features. “Ask Francis. Gilbert. The lot.”

America tilted his head, waiting for England to say he was jesting. Then again, England had never been all the inclined to humor. “Maybe you should tell me the real story sometime then.”

“Perhaps.” England ran his hand through his hair. “Now... since I have won, you owe me a favor.”

“Right, what did you want?”

“Anything?” A smirk crawled up England's features as he stared the other down.

“That’s what we agreed to, isn’t it?” America said, a feeling he couldn’t quite define curling in his chest at the way England was looking at him. Anticipation? Fear? Perhaps it was a little of both.

“Mn.” England shrugged, walking back to the front of the range. When he turned to face America again, his face had gone to its usual expression of haughty disdain. “I'll think on it.”

America shrugged and walked back with him, noticing France coming around the edge of the hedge, waving at him and England. He waved back. France approached, a pouting expression on his face. “Do we have to do this, Angleterre? Do you really need to relive the experience of besting me with a longbow?”

***

“Oh yes, every time I can, Francis,” England drawled. Thank heavens that France showed up when he did. The desire to pull America to him to continue what had begun on the settee gripped him. He coughed. Perhaps the desire to possess him stemmed from the memory of losing him? Yes, England reasoned with himself, I’m just sensitive to the time of year.

Sighing, France made a shooing gesture at America. “Go on, I do not need anyone else to witness my humiliation, besides Mathieu wanted to talk to you.” He persisted until America gave up and said goodbye to England. The younger nation gone, France returned to take up his position on the archery range, he picked up an arrow, but didn’t immediately knock it into place. He rubbed the feathers on his cheek. “He is shaping up to be something isn’t he?” Putting the arrow on the bow and drawing it back to his chin he released it and struck the target, but not the center.

“That's one word for it.” England said flatly.

France leaned on the bow and gave him a conspiratorial look. “I’m sure you can think of many words for him.”

“Loudmouthed, cocky, and annoying come to mind.”

“Yes, I am sure that is what you were thinking when you held onto him so possessively.” A lascivious smile spread on France’s face.

“I did not hold him possessively.” he snapped “You're loony, imagining things”

“Ah, so you do not deny holding him close?” France raised an eyebrow at him. “You went from denying his affection to embracing him so quickly! Unless... are you toying with him? That would be so cruel Angleterre, especially when America tried to kiss you so sweetly.”

“I never-” England faltered. “You were spying on us?!”

“Is it spying if I happen to be coming around the hedge and merely do not announce my presence?”

“Absolutely, frog! Don't play coy!” The color drained out of his face “Matthew….” What if Matthew had seen it all? What would he think?!

France’s expression changed, the smug smile drooping at one corner. “What about him?”

“He wasn't watching with you was he?”

“No, mon petit Mathieu excused himself to go on some errand or another. He requested that I send dear Alfred to him when I caught up with you two. Why? Are you worried he would be jealous?” France gave him a suspicious look.

England snorted, relief flooding through him. “No. Matthew just has enough to deal with than worrying about other things out of his control.”

Relief crossed France’s face for just a moment before he flipped his hair over his shoulder and regained his haughty expression. “You should, however, be cautious. I’ve never seen Alfred act the way he does these days around you. You are playing with fire, mon ami.”

“He isn't acting in any new ways.” England crossed his arms, trying to make the lie convincing. “I believe you are imagining things again. And I am not your friend.”

France came a few steps closer and leaned close. “Fine, take it as an observation from a former lover and master of l’amour. I know what you look like when you want something. And whether you will admit it or no...” He gave an elegant shrug and left it up to England to fill in the rest.

“What I want is something to eat and peace and quiet,” England said sharply. “And to not listen to your nonsense anymore.” With that England turned on his heel. “I'll extract my winnings from you later.”

***

Later that evening...

“Well at least we know that you can do fire now... and that I should start practicing again. I only meant to put out the fire not drown the room.” England laughed as he and Matthew stumbled out of the room, smoke billowing behind them. Staring down at himself England took in the sight of his clothes covered in ash. Looking at Matthew, he saw that the blond's shoulder length hair had become gray. “We look like terrible chimney sweeps,” England said flatly. Matthew snorted, sending them both to laughter.

Squeezing drops of water from his hair, Canada looked at the mess that was left on his hands. “Well, they’ll probably just think we are mad scientists. Well, that you are.”

“Well they can think what they will.” He surveyed the room from the doorway. “We need to work on your shielding spells next.”

Canada nodded. “I’m still struggling with those... but... do you think we could continue tomorrow? It appears it’s grown rather late and I promised Australia I would take him to the zoo tomorrow. I expect he will be at my door before dawn.” Canada shrugged at the antics of one of the younger colonies.

“Of course, I wasn't going to suggest tonight anyways. I didn't sleep well last night and was hoping to turn in early.”

“Good night, then.” Canada walked past him, pausing halfway down the hall and half turning back. A concerned expression came over his face. “I... Can I talk to you about something tomorrow? I don’t want to trouble you with it now, but... I’m worried about some developments back home, and... well, I’m worried about Alfred. He’s acting normal right now, but...” He shrugged as though he wasn’t sure how to describe it.

“I know what you mean. But yes. We can have supper privately tomorrow.” An understanding expression on his face. Relief spread across Canada’s face and with a small bow of his head, he went to his rooms. England headed towards his own to wash and prepare for bed. America’s headaches worried him and the fact that he wanted to head to his rooms right now instead of his own.

***

Night

America sat on the rug in front of the fire in his room. He was tired, but the idea of getting back into his bed and letting sleep overtake him once again was terrifying. He was back, like his other self-creeping in at the edges when he was at his weakest. Was it him? Was it someone else? He didn’t even know anymore. A silver mantel clock ticked away the hours. It was after 11 pm, too late to call on anyone and be polite about it. Not that he was overly concerned with that. Making a decision he pulled on a robe and poked his head out into the corridor. No servants were passing by, a perfect time to sneak out. 

Padding down the hallway in his bare feet he counted the doors. Canada had told him he was six rooms away. There. The door turned easily and he walked through the darkened front room towards the bedroom, where the door was cracked. He pushed it open. “Matt, I need...”

“Alfred!” Canada was grabbing for his nightshirt that had been flung haphazardly over the bedpost and pulled it back on. His skin was flushed and America had seen the flash of blond hair before he dived under the blankets. America ignored the human-shaped lump in the blankets and went around to the other side of the bed. Apparently, Canada had decided to be unconcerned about England potentially finding out about his bed activities with France. 

“Francis, I need my brother,” he said, climbing into the bed on the opposite side of France’s body. Canada glared at him for a moment, but then his eyes widened looking at America’s face.

“Mon Dieu! Really, at this hour?” France said, throwing back the blankets and not bothering to hide his state of undress. Canada put a hand on his bare shoulder.

“He does, I’m sorry. It may not take long?” said Canada, his hand sliding up to France’s cheek. For a moment, France still seemed disappointed before he leaned in and kissed Canada in a way that left no doubt in America’s mind what he’d interrupted. He couldn’t care about that though. They had time. The other person in his head was eating away on his own. France sidled out of the bed, finding his trousers on the floor and pulling them loosely on before stepping out into the front room. America took the opportunity to snuggle closer to Canada, and Canada put his hand on his head. “Is it back? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I just don’t want to be alone... too many voices in my head.” Canada stroked his hair and rested his chin on the top of his head. America held him tightly, listening to Canada hum a song that they used to sing to each other when they were alone and frightened.

“You know you owe me for interrupting,” said Canada, and America could hear the smile in his voice. America tried to find the strength to laugh. It wouldn’t come.

“Nah, maybe I’m just getting back at you for interrupting something this morning.” 

“That’s what I was wondering... Alfred?” America squeezed his eyes shut, the pain spiking just in the middle of his forehead. “Shhh. It will be well.”

***

“Lord Kirkland!” A banging on the door jolted England from a dead sleep. It had taken him hours to fall asleep, too many thoughts swarming through his head.

“It is bloody too fucking late for this.” England snapped, “What is it!?” 

“It's Mister Bonnefoy, he has sent for you.”

“At this blasted hour?” England flopped back against his pillows as he rolled over, his back to the door. “Well, you can tell Master Bonnefoy that he can wait until tomorrow morning.”

“He said it was urgent. It's about Mister Jones.”

“What?” That caught England's attention. Sitting up, he threw his covers back grabbing for his night robe. Shoving his arms into the sleeves quickly. Tying it off, he yanked the door open, startling the servant. “Which room?”

“Um-”

“Room!” he barked.

“Um... from Master William’s room,” the man stuttered, scrambling out of the way as England hurried past him, foregoing even a pair of slippers. As much as he hated it there was no surprise that France was summoning him from Canada’s room. Although, he thought that the other had more tact than that. But the fact that France was sending for him regarding America from Canada’s room was highly concerning. Forgoing knocking he pushed inside Canada’s room. 

France stepped out of the bedroom, his shirt loosely thrown over his shoulders. “I will give you time to be angry with me later... but right now it seems America’s problems are bigger than I thought. The boy is a powder keg...” He looked back into the room, concern on his face.

“Trust me. Your ears will be ringing about this Francis,” England muttered. “What exactly is going on?”

“I was here and Alfred bursts through the door. I didn’t get a good look at him at first, but he was pale. Matthieu says he has it handled, but...” France shrugged. “They won’t let me any closer than here, I thought with the second voice of wisdom... they’d let us help.”

“So you mean the first voice of wisdom?” England said, before poking his head into the room. “Matthew, Alfred? What’s going on?”

Canada’s voice was quiet. “It’s just a nightmare... I told Francis he could leave. I think... I think he’s asleep now.”

“A simple nightmare wouldn't send him running. Especially since I know for a fact that he is privy to your doings with France.” He paused. “It’s because of the break over slavery with his people I take it.”

“It’s... there’s... he says he hears voices.”

“Like the voices of his people?” England frowned, slipping into the room to pad over to the bed quietly. 

“He... he won’t tell me. All I know is that it frightens him. Alfred... I’ve never seen him like this.” An oil lantern had been lit near the bed, the light starting to sputter as the fuel began to burn out. America did appear to be asleep, but not a single line of his body was relaxed. His face was pressed against Canada’s nightshirt, arms wrapped tightly around him. Canada was holding him tightly back, as though he were trying to clutch a broken plate. 

Settling on the empty side of the bed England watched America for a few brief moments of silence. “It won’t take long... he is trying to ignore it. But unless something changes a civil war appears inevitable for Alfred... he is finally going to be forced to see all the bad sides of being a nation rather than all of the good things that he has experienced so far. It’s regrettable... but unavoidable,” he said quietly. 

Canada’s eyes filled with tears and he snuggled close to America, burying his face in his shirt. Stirring, America blinked at him. “Matt? I’m okay now...” he said, his voice sounding a little hoarse.

“You’re not...” Canada mumbled back. “Every time something happens to you it happens to me too.” 

America didn’t reply, a furrow appearing on his brow.“Is that Arthur? Why are you in Matt’s room?”

“Matthew’s room is in my palace,” England corrected, leaning back against the headboard as he reached out and smoothed Canada's hair.

“Right... I came to visit you... I’m in England...” 

“Yes, you did,” England said, concern swirling in his stomach. America couldn’t remember where he was? The mattress sank again, signaling that France was sitting there quietly.

Unwrapping one arm from around Canada, America reached behind him, taking England’s hand. “Are you going to leave?”

“With that grip, I don't think I can,” England said with a roll of his eyes.

“Good,” said America, ignoring England’s tone. “Stay with me.”

“Of course,” England said, glancing at France. 

Before France had a chance to try and pull away, Canada blindly reached for him. “I suppose I am staying as well,” he said, settling down and softly stroking Canada’s hair. 

“Nostalgic a bit don't you think,” England muttered looking at the younger pair. England couldn’t remember the last time the four of them were in one room alone. Much less not arguing over something. If someone had told him that this would happen again fifty years ago he would have sent them to get their head checked. He peered at the two North American brothers sandwiched between much older nations. Reaching over he pushed Canada’s hair back, a tired smile his response. America still clung to the pair of them as if they were flotation devices on a raging river. Things had certainly changed in many ways, but in some ways, they had not. 

“Indeed,” replied France, making himself comfortable. Despite the summer weather, the room was comfortable, the four of them together. They drifted off to sleep, one by one. However, unlike the last time they’d all been together, England did not wake up awkwardly pressed against France as America and Canada snuck out to some childhood adventure. Instead, he woke to America with his arms loosely wrapped around his waist, face pressed into the crook of his neck. His face twitched for a moment as another nightmare passed through his mind, but then it smoothed again. England held him close, lips pressed against his hair.

If only you were mine to protect... I can’t save you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	14. Red Sky in Morning, Sailor's Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long silence has England worried. However, upon encountering America in the last place he expected he wants answers. However, it seems there are more questions than ever.

_December 21, 1854_

_Dear Alfred,_

_I am concerned that your letters are being lost along the Atlantic in some form or another as I have not received a response to my correspondence in a long time. I hope that you are receiving mine, as many things have happened this year here in England that I believe you would find interesting. Of course, I do not need to remind you of the easily taken care of agreement regarding the treaty and international copyright. Sadly, we were not able to meet face to face, but it was taken care of so simply last year._

_While we remain in each other's good graces it is not the same between me and another nation. On the twenty-seventh of February, I was forced to send an ultimatum to Russia, demanding that he remove himself from the two provinces Moldavia and Wallachia that belong to the Ottoman Empire. Yet, as you surely know, he refused to do as such, and just over a month later, on the twenty-eighth of March, I declared war on him.  However, I do not want this entire letter to be filled with unpleasant things._

_I do remember how you were appropriately enamored with the Crystal Palace. It has been reopened and this time it displays life-size dinosaur models on the grounds. I do hope you shall have a chance to see them, it's astounding._

_And do tell Matthew that I am alright. He wrote to me earlier in the year, concerned with my health due to the Cholera epidemic in London. It makes me sick to think of the ten thousand of my people died because of it. I briefly took ill but I am well now. I heard that you caught ill as well, I hope things are shaping up in that regard._

_I am hopeful to receive your letter._

_Your Servant,_

_Lord Arthur Kirkland_

_***_

_February 16, 1855_

_Dear Alfred,_

_I still have not received a word back from you. It is becoming concerning. I trust everything is going all right. There are concerning reports regarding developments within your borders. Do know that I am here should you need advice._

_I find myself busy with the Crimean war, but I hope it is over soon. I do not have much to write to you about since my last letter, however, do I have an interesting story to tell you. Just last week, after a mass amount of snow hoof-like marks suddenly appeared in the snow. Yet, it is not the sight of hoofprints that is concerning about them, but rather how they appear. They are about four inches long, 3 inches wide and the step length of eight to sixteen inches! And nearly all in a single file! They traveled up to nearly forty-six leagues! The trail carried straight over houses, haystacks, rivers, you name it and with no disruption. They even disappeared into little pipes that are four inches in diameter! My people cannot seem to agree upon what has happened, what all of this is about, and what caused it. There are whispers of it being the devil's footprints. It's a chilling thought. Perhaps you have some idea?_

_Your Servant,_

_Lord Arthur Kirkland_

***

_April 1855_

_Edo, Japan_

Leaning back against one of the wooden pillars on the wide porch, America looked at the garden. It was a different sort of garden, kind of strange, but at the same time interesting. There were small statues whose names he hadn’t quite caught surrounded by plants and carefully arranged stones. The night sky was mostly clear, only marred by the smoke that rose from torches and kitchen fires around the city. When he first met him, he expected Japan to be similar to China, but they were different. He put the writing desk to the side. He’d received a package full of England’s letters a week ago and every time he inks to the paper he had to begin again so many times that the paper would end up in a wadded mess. He couldn’t think of anything to say. England would want to know about the treaty he is making. Maybe he could write about that? He reached for the paper, but his fingers stopped before he could make it. England would want small talk. A wooden mention of his discussions of Japan wasn’t enough. He sighed.

A soft whisper on the wood pulled America’s attention from the curious little bamboo fountain that would knock rhythmically as it filled and emptied. He smiled at Japan, who maintained an unreadable expression. He was wearing a dark robe... a kimono? The word was strange in America’s mind, but he was rapidly getting used to it.

“Good evening, Japan.”

Japan nodded. He settled down onto one of the cushions on his knees. A glass clunk on the wood showed that he had brought one of the bottles of whiskey that Captain Perry had given to him as a gift. Japan looked at it, confusion crossing his face. “My emperor says that... we should spend more time together since I will likely be seeing much more of you now.”

“I sure hope so.” They’d spent a few meals together and Japan had shown him around the city one day. They’d had a few good discussions, but Japan always seemed to clam up when he began to grow more enthusiastic, as though he was embarrassed that he was interested in the outside world. America reached for the bottle of whiskey, reaching for the cork. Japan watched him. When he first met him, he’d barely opened the door. Then again, it did take Perry’s tenacity to even get him to talk to him. “What do you think?”

“About?”

“The steam locomotive? When I was walking around this morning I saw you playing with it. It’s really something ain’t it?” Japan looked away and folded his hands.

“It is a charming machine, you’ve brought me many interesting things. When they told me someone named America had come calling, I must say that I didn’t know what to expect... from what I understand you were barely in existence when I left the world.”

“I guess that depends... I’m not really sure of the year. I guess it would have been around that time.” He took the bottle of whiskey and took a drink. He sat it back down so Japan could try some if he wanted. “I was a colony then though.”

“Of Great Britain’s?” America nodded. Japan picked up the whiskey and took a tentative sip. He wrinkled his nose and sat it back down. “I don’t remember if I’ve ever met him... From what I’ve heard... he’s quite brutal. Why did he not destroy you when you declared independence from him? It’s what I would have done.”

America raised an eyebrow at him. “What makes you think he didn’t try?”

Japan picked up the whiskey bottle again and tipped it back, this time not even responding to burn of the liquid. He considered his answer for a minute. “Because you are here. And Netherlands said that despite what you would say, you come with him attached.”

Frowning, America pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his chin on them. He stared out into the darkness and watched a bird hop from stone to stone in the little pond. “Look, I didn’t meant to bring those envoys. I tried to leave them in China. I don’t work for England and France.”

Japan seemed to consider this. “What’s he like?”

“England? Bossy, noisy, and big eyebrows.” He couldn’t help but feel a little bittersweet at the entire thing. England’s letters had become fewer and far between as they continued to go unanswered. Every time he’d tried to pick up a pen to explain no words came. He wished he could just combine it all with a touch, a glance, asking England if he could help keep the monsters at bay. It was impossible though. His head throbbed and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Are you unwell?”

“I’m fine.” Silence stretched between them and Japan seemed content to let it. The headache intensified, but America willed it away. They passed the bottle back and forth a few more times. “Have I told you the story about this land I found filled with giant waterfalls?”

Japan shook his head and America launched into the tale, grateful that Japan didn’t bring up England again.

***

_11 September 1855_

_Forts of Sevastopol, Russia_

“The little bastard Ivan won't last much longer.” The Ottoman Empire commented loudly, eyeing the war torn forts, armies swarming over the constructs like ants. Two sets of eyes, green and blue settled on the masked man who stood rigid with anticipation. 

“It has been a year long siege, even that one won’t be able to hold out forever,” France agreed, arms folded over his chest. England watched the motion enviously, his own right arm throbbing painfully in its sling, courtesy of a cannon ball to the shoulder on the Black Sea. 

“I declared war on him two Octobers ago. I am surprised that he has lasted this long.” The Ottoman Empire stood, his height towering over the two blonde europeans as he began to pace. 

“Patience. With the aid of Sardina-Piedmont’s additional troops since last January I highly doubt Ivan is daft enough to continue a futile struggle,” England commented. Eyeing the two men England watched as they tensed in turn. The continued talk of Russia, enraging the Ottoman Empire, and the mention of Italy, bringing a look of annoyance to France’s face. The fact that the small cheery brunette nation had shown up waving wildly at ‘big brother France’ had immediately soured the Frenchman. France had been trying since before the construction of the Holy Roman Empire to capture Italy. Yet, Austria had refused to release his grip on the small artistic nation, even when the nation of Austria had entered a state of destitution. And now Russia was skirting around, trying to do everything he could to battle, but not do anything that would give Austria a reason to join the fray.

Good hand settling on his hip England watched their combined forces continue their assault against the city. He had no love for the Russian nation, the vibe he exuded sent chills up his spine, and he wouldn’t doubt that if given the chance he would pull an attempt at his own empire. 

Chewing on the inside of his cheek England’s thoughts briefly returned to America. Russia had dropped hints at their last meeting that he and the wheat haired nation had progressed beyond simple friendliness in their relations and England was uncertain on how to take that admission. While England had offered to take sides with the Ottoman Empire against Russia for the sake of trade, a small, hidden portion of himself wished to rally against Russia in spite. The little upstart needed to learn his place, and if the little tidbits regarding America were truly nothing then the younger was stupid as well, only idiots would tell falsehoods the British Empire. America couldn’t possibly turn his smiles on Russia of all people. The whole lot of it was something that England’s mind revisited painfully. England found himself painfully upset when he had found out that in 1832 America had signed a commerce treaty with Russia. It felt like a betrayal of the shaky relationship they had been attempting to rebuild since his blasted revolution. 

England felt a surge of anger. It was like he couldn’t get away from America. He had spent years doing his best to get back to the quickly growing colony only to have wars and politics prevent him from doing so. And then America had misunderstood it all and rebelled. Decades followed by trying to put space between America and himself, trying to banish him from his thoughts and he still hadn't left. Even here, America plagued his mind and his politics. They stood on a precipice of uncertainty as suddenly they had gone from skirting around each other to carnal interactions and unasked questions. And now America was siding with Russia against him. Clenching his teeth, England watched as the soldiers continued their siege. He should be down there with them. Not up here standing and directing troops!

“Arthur? _A quoi penses-tu_?”

“That the world folds.”

“Excuse me?”

“Russia will fold.” England changed his response, distaste souring his stomach. He hated this. He needed it done.

***

_30 March 1856_

_Paris, France_

_Signing of the Treaty of Paris_

“This took far too long to resolve,” England muttered, leaning against the wall at the back of the room as he watched the human delegates mingle, pouring over papers and arguing over details. 

“I agree, _mon ami_ , Ivan should have known better to take on such a task. Right from the start he was facing the Ottoman Empire and should have expected the British and French empires to stand with him. Our trade is far more important than Russia’s misguided attempt to create conformity over Eastern European Catholics,” said the French nation, absentmindedly curling a strand of hair around his finger. 

“Big Brother France?” A small, but a chipper voice interrupted the pair, and the two blonds turned their attention to a short brunette smiling at them. “ _Bene_! I was afraid I got here early.” Italy smiled at them both in relief.

“Not early, but late,” England interrupted, watching as Francis patted the Kingdom of Italy on the shoulder. Italy’s smile slipped a little, more nerves than gratefulness. Italy Feliciano had always been rather scatterbrained. England still couldn’t decide whether that was solely due to the nature of his people or the fact that he had been trying to unify multiple states since 1815 via with the Congress of Vienna. The sticky fingers of Austria-Hungary certainly didn’t help the situation. He had run into the other two in the hall earlier, arguing fervently, as usual, with Prussia. He had met with Italy a limited amount of times since his young days at Austria’s home when everyone thought him to be a young girl. 

“Do you think we shall have access to the Black Sea, Arthur?” Italy asked and England looked at the other, the brunette shifting, nervously.

“Absolutely, for I shall not sign the treaty otherwise,” England affirmed. “Russian warships have been interfering with the trade for far too long, and, despite how formidable their fleets are, the sinking of the Turkish fleets causes an issue for all of Europe. Sadiq needs to focus on his crumbling society so that it does not affect the important trade that we all use. It's a waste of time to be worrying about a nation who has gotten cocky and far too big for his britches.”

“This is a peace talk, Arthur. I would stop while you are ahead, s’il vous plait,” France warned, eyes skipping over to where Russia sat in a corner of the room, thistle colored eyes fixated on them with unwavering intent. As usual, the large scarf wearing nation had the smallest, conflicting, smile on his mouth.

“It’s infuriating that Roderick was the moving force that ultimately forced Russia to concede to a peace treaty.” England bit his thumb in frustration. More and more nations were becoming influential, powers of this changing world. It was becoming far more complicated than it used to, which meant it was becoming far more dangerous to do anything. 

To think that the Austrian Empire was such an influence today, Roderick had always been large in attitude and pomp, but not such much in the military until he became head of the Holy Roman Empire. Their countries loathed each other on and off, especially during the reign of King Henry VIII. Yet, as long as they stayed clear of certain topics of conversations or religion depending on the day in England’s case, he and Roderick had always gotten along well as two gentlemen. They both shared a love of the arts and a strong distaste in regards to France. As long as their nations weren't at war they got along swimmingly. The irritation that swirled in England’s belly was something he could not ignore. What did Austria have or what had he done that such a large and upcoming country such as as Russia wary of him?

“Well, he does have Madame Elizaveta and Gilbert on his side. And we both know that Roderick is definitely not one of the most gentle handed nations when it comes to getting what he wants. He did argue with you for years,” France pointed out and England rolled his eyes. 

“Does not make it any less infuriating.”

“Big Brother Roderick can be scary when he wants to be,” Italy chimed in. “Especially when you use his music sheets as painting paper.”

“Oh, _mon d-_ ”

“You’re a prat, Feliciano.”

“What does that even mean?!”

“Can we get this started!?” The Ottoman Empire bellowed, his voice reverberating throughout the room, calling for immediate silence.

“Guess the loudmouth has some uses.” England sighed, moving with the crowds of people as they all settled into chairs crammed around the large table. Leaning against the straight-backed seat England schooled his face into a neutral expression as Russia sat across the table from him. He really did not like that man, from his unnecessary war to his suggestive and falsified comments about Alfred. The little shit needed to learn his place. Normally, England demanded that he be one of the leading nations to speak during the peace treaties. However, he had told France and the Ottoman Empire that he was more than fine just to watch the proceedings as long as his demands were met as well. Not having to speak would give him the time to watch all the demands and restrictions fall upon Russia’s shoulders, a sense of twisted satisfaction sliding into place. 

“Wartime commerce is to be adjusted,” France announced, getting to his feet at England’s right elbow, blue eyes flicking over the papers in his hand. “Privateering is now illegal, a neutral flag must cover enemy goods with the exception of contraband, all neutral goods, except contraband are not allowed to be captured under an enemy flag, blockages, if they are to be considered legal, have to be effective.” The words were barely out his mouth before The Ottoman Empire on England’s left elbow was on his feet, barking out his demands, France sitting down quietly with a sniff

“Moldavia and Wallachia remain under an Ottoman rule. The Aland Islands in the Baltic Sea, which belong to the Russian Grand Principality of Finland must be demilitarized. Russia will lose its power over the Romanian principalities which does, yes, including the Principality of Serbia.” The large man dropped back down into his seat, the chair shuddering in protest, with a smug expression as Austria, Hungary, Prussia, and Germany, who England hadn’t even seen arrive, all got to their feet to speak. 

With a side glance at France, he saw the other blond shake his head at him. A unified Germany was a growing concern. Germany was so close to French borders and they had been recently encroaching on English economic interests. Germany was also someone he would have to watch closely. Leaning forward England only took minimal notes, more interested in watching the body language and the expressions of the nations in attendance. This treaty was allowing the Ottoman Empire into the Concert of Europe and, if this meeting foretold anything, it was that things were about to increase in complexity and tensions.

***

_April 19, 1857_

_Dear Alfred,_

_I know that you shall be receiving the official request from my crown that you assist me in my retaliation against China. He has taken one of my ships ‘The Arrow’, taken my traders and seized my flag off my own vessel. He has now refused to return my people or apologize for removing my colors. You have declared neutrality thus far, yet just last October on the twenty-ninth when my troops blasted through the walls of Ye Mingchen your consul Master James Keenan planted an American Flag. By making such a bold statement alongside my troops I hope to take this as a good sign that you shall support me in this righting of wrongs. The support would be highly appreciated as I fear I am to soon face an insurgency in India._

_Alongside all of this, I have recently just been relieved of duties with Persia, who broke our mutual treaty on October 25, 1856, and invaded an Afghanistani city, Herat. It was of great importance that Herat reminded with their current power as they are an independent dynasty who works with me in a friendly manner. Thankfully, it was short lived as my government declared war on November first that year and when Persia, who if you ever meet goes by the name Ardeshir Farbod, realized that I was not going to back down, backpedaled almost immediately. We settled the Treaty of Paris 1857 just twenty-five days ago, forcing him to leave Herat, apologize to my diplomat, and suppress slavery in the Persian docks. It seems that he has realized that I will not take being slighted._

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Your Servant,_

_Lord Arthur Kirkland_

***

_June 25, 1859_

_Second Battle of the Taku Forts_

_China_

Clutching the side of the Plover, England stumbled after the only nine unwounded men left on the ship. Scrambling across the desk England clutched at his head. There was too much going on, the mutiny in India, this war, the Anglo-Persian war... it made the ache in his head more intense. Chinese artillery screamed through the air, pelting the ship and his men. 

“Engage the Enemy!” General Grant bellowed from the masthead. It was like clockwork. Plover’s four guns opened as the ten other gunships received the signal, firing upon China’s ships and the fort. It was all too close, the quarters becoming more narrow. Men began to drop like victims of the plague, the thud of their bodies against the deck unheard beneath the sound of cannon fire. It was as if the Chinese were filled with the vehemence of the devil. Turning from his cannon, England looked wildly around. 

“For the love of the holy-” Bile leaped into his throat. One moment Lieutenant Rason had stood barking orders, and then the next all that was left connected to the deck were trousers and boots, the man splinched in half. The deck, splintered beyond recognition, painted horribly with blood and body, seawater failing at its dilution of the disaster.  “Nine,” England croaked, lurching towards the guns. “Men! We must keep the last two open!” Numb hands grabbed the weapon, shoulders bumping into shoulders as bodies crushed in around the weapons, adrenaline dulling pain and despair. 

Boots slipping in the slickness caused by water and blood, England fell, someone, catching him around the waist before his face hit the back of the gun. “Woah, Arthur, watch out! I’ve got the gun.” England turned, eyes wide with shock. Had he been wounded? Was he delirious? He couldn’t possibly be here! America grinned at him, face pale, but taking his place at the gun regardless.

“What the hell! Why are you here?” England stared at the other through sopping bangs. One moment he was manning a gun, attempting to once again crush China. France was being useless as usual. And now America waltzes in as if he’d not asked him for aid years ago? In a fit of annoyance, temper short with pain and irritation, he kicked America's ankle, doubling over as the ship rocked violently. “Don’t ignore me, Alfred!” Any relief at seeing America after years of silence was pushed to the wayside by battle and malady. 

Wincing, America turned around black powder from loading the bow gun already smeared across his cheeks. “I was nearby and we heard the battle. Commodore Tattnall thought we should come aid you.” The gunboat rocked and he took a few steps to keep his balance. 

“Come help me!?” England shouted. Everything was happening too fast again, anger lashing through him. “Help would have been fucking bloody nice when I asked for it years ago!”

“That’s--”

“Jones! Get those rascals back here so we can go to work,” shouted Tattnall, waving him back toward the small boat that had been pulled up alongside the HMS Plover. 

“I’ve got to go... we can talk after the battle is over.” For a brief moment, he caught England’s hand and squeezed it, disappearing over the side of the boat as quickly as he’d appeared in the first place.

“Liar!” England shouted after the younger, turning to the guns with more anger than before. Who did that little brat think he was!? Showing up after years of silence, pushing him back from his own gun and then disappearing moments later. Disrupting his battle because he just happened to be in the area? As if he had just popped in to join afternoon tea!?

America hadn’t seemed to have heard. The battle continued, the Chinese continuing to fire on them from the forts. The Americans went forward in their launch boats trying to help men wounded and dead that had fallen into the water and bring them back to the safety of the other ships. It was difficult to keep sight of them in the churning water. The night began to fall, the only light from the Chinese fort as they burned blue lanterns to continue firing into the darkness. England had been able to catch sight of America a few times during the battle, but he couldn’t see him now.

“We have no choice but to withdraw,” said Admiral Hope, limping on his wounded leg. The few able-bodied men went to work immediately to begin the withdrawal and sailing back away from the forts. Perhaps, in daylight, they could return. However, England didn’t have high hopes that they would be in much better shape in the morning. More wounded men were brought aboard and he could see them being loaded on other ships. England pulled out his pocket watch, glad that it still seemed to be ticking. He tried to pick out the hands in the lamp lit darkness. It was well after midnight now. Hope had been taken below, but England refused to give up his post at the helm of the gunboat. 

He didn’t realize he had drifted off until someone was lightly shaking his shoulder. “Arthur, you should go below. Get some rest.” England blinked. America was back, clothes soaked with seawater and stained from the blood of the sailors he’d spent the entire afternoon and evening rescuing. England grabbed at the front of his uniform, eyes searching for the source of any wounds contributing to the blood-stained uniform. “I’m not hurt... one of my men though... We got attacked and... but we were able to evacuate as many men as we could find.” His skin seemed even paler now in the half-light. 

England stared at him. He had so many questions. Why was he here? Why was he ignoring his letters? Why was he not a bloody ally here? “Why?” he croaked. It was all he could say.

America reached down so he could pull England up from where he was leaning on the wheel. “You heard the Commodore, didn’t you? ‘Blood is thicker than water’... I couldn’t just sail away... you were in trouble.”

“If blood is thicker than water then why have you been ignoring me?” 

America looked away, his jaw quivering slightly as he clenched his teeth. “I... I... there wasn’t much to say... Do we have to talk about this now? It’s been a long day.” He rubbed his forehead.

England stared at him before saying flatly. “I guess not. We can continue the trend you seem so fond of.” He cleared his throat. Damn the nausea was back. “It’s been a long day. So I guess you should go.” The pain overwhelmed him and he felt himself tipping forward. America jumped forward, catching him before he could hit the deck.

“Come on, let’s get you to a berth.” He hooked England’s arm around his shoulders and helped him down below decks.

“I can certainly handle it myself.” England protested, yet leaned against America as they shuffled down the stairs. “You should be back under guard watch.” he muttered, “I’ve always been too lax with you.”

“Is that what you should say to someone who came to your aid?” England pointed when they got to his cabin. America opened the door. “Do you have a clean uniform? You shouldn’t sleep in that.”

“Came to my aid. You were the one who refused in the first place,” England argued, reaching for his bed as they got closer to it on the opposing wall. The room was small and lacked embellishment for being one of the nicer cabins on board. England didn’t feel the nicety to nest on what was supposed to be a brief trip. Shrugging away from America he dropped onto the bed with a small grunt. 

“You know that there’s a difference between politics and the right thing. You needed help so I helped you. Blood is thicker than water.” He found a trunk beneath the berth and pulled it out. Clean clothes were on top and he sat them down next to England. 

“We aren’t related,” England said sharply, remembering America had said the same thing up on deck.

“No.” America looked up at him from where he was crouched next to the open trunk. He closed it and kicked it back into its spot. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “We’re... I don’t know. None of this is yours is it?” He reached up, pulling his sleeve over his fingers so he could rub at some of the blood that was drying on England’s face.

“Watch your strength!” England gripped, eyes scrunching closed. 

America gentled the touch considerably. “Are you wounded?”

“That depends,” England muttered “...It’s nothing.” 

“What do you mean?” America reached over and ran his hand over England’s sleeve as if he could feel out any injury.

“I'm busy with a lot of stuff. I'm just tired is all.” 

“There has been a lot of things going on...” America trailed off. 

“I did just say that.” England sighed. 

“I know, I got your letters.” He picked up the stack of the clean uniform. “You really should change.”

Reaching up England grabbed took them from America “I can't exactly change with you here can I?”

America stared at him. “Of course. I’ll step outside.” He stood and went back towards the door.

England watched as America slipped outside and he stared at the clothes in his lap. Nothing was really going how it was supposed. Rubbing his eyes as nausea got worse. This mutiny was ridiculous. And now with China doing all of this again and the Crimean war just wrapping up. It was a never-ending set of complications. Placing the clothes on the bed beside him he shrugged out of his jacket before leaning down to unlace his boots. Placing them on the spot he always did when he retired for the evening. Yet, instead of continuing to undress he flopped back on the bed with a sigh of exhaustion. Staring up at the ceiling he blinked slowly, mind hazy with too many thoughts.

“Arthur, are you doing all right?” 

Blinking England lifted his head to see America standing in the doorway. “Didn’t you leave me to get changed?” he frowned. 

“I didn’t know if you would need me so I... Well, I’m just outside when you’re finished.”

England arched a brow. “Really? Me? Need you? Tried to ask for aid before and that didn’t exactly work now did it?’

Barging back in, America slammed the door behind him. “I didn’t have any resources! You’re not the only one with things going on.” 

England sighed, dropping his head back onto the bed. “Oh, but you had the resources to willy-nilly arrive here it seems.”

“I didn’t hear your sailors complaining when I pulled them out of the water.” He frowned. “You’re obviously mad about something, just out with it.”

“I’m not upset at all.”

“I know you.”

England snorted. “You jest. Rather badly at that.”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, America frowned down at him. “Fine, but I’m not leaving until you go to sleep.”

“Why? And if I ask you to leave?” 

“Because I worry about you.” He took his glasses off and rubbed his face. “Who knows when we’ll see each other again, excuse me for wanting to spend time with you.”

“Really? The guilt eating at you?” England sighed. _He’s lying, there's no way, no one who would admit that even less feel that way in regards to my person._

Tilting his head, America gave him a confused look. “Guilty?”

“About not coming when I asked. So now you don’t want to leave.”

America looked away. “Everything isn’t about you,” he muttered. 

“Nothing ever concerns you about me. Trust me I am fully aware,” England said, flatly. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” America whirled around, hurt flashing across his face.

“Alfred” England sighed covering his eyes. “Just...let it be I suppose.”

“Does that ever work, letting it be?” He slumped over, his sea-damp hair tickling England’s chest, as he pressed his forehead to his skin.

England stiffened, his first reaction is to shove the other man off. But as his mind and emotions caught up with his reflexes he instead relaxed. “No.”

“I’m tired.” America sighed. 

“I sympathize.” England sighed. “You'll catch your death with that wet hair.” he reached down, sliding his fingers through America's hair, slicking it back. He was still pissed at the boy, but also a level of pleasure at his company was present. It was conflicting. 

“Mn,” America grunted in response, not moving at all. 

“You-” England sighed “At least grab a blanket of some sort! You're getting me wet as well and I have no time for a cold. Since I don’t have the energy to make you leave you could do that much.” The tone of his voice ended at the edge of whine. 

America shifted, dragging the blanket out from under them both and draping it over England. He lay his head back down, closing his eyes.

“Remind me never to let you try and raise a colony” England sighed, shifting onto his right hip as he smothered a yawn.

“I’m too tired to be gentle,” he grumbled, settling against England’s side. 

“You must always be tired then” he shot back before relishing the body heat America put off. 

“These days...” 

“Just sleep Alfred.” he didn't have the energy for this right now.

“You, too,” America mumbled, snuggling closer.

When England woke the bed was cold. Blinking the sleep from his eyes England peered at the empty space beside him, empty of a warm body and in its space a single piece of paper. “that fucking arsehole.” Sticking a hand out of the blanket that had been tucked around him he shivered at the cool air. Pulling the note inside the blanket and the blanket over his head England waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside of his personal cocoon before peering at the untidy scrawl.

_Arthur,_

_I have to go, there’s an issue that needs to be dealt with back home. Good luck with your war with China._

_I hope that the next time we run into each other we can talk. I’ve been... got to skedaddle, the captain is calling._

_Best Wishes,_

_Alfred_

“That little...” England crumpled the letter in his hands. “Coward, couldn't even gather himself enough to say goodbye to my face!” An unpleasant feeling scratched his chest. England clutched the crumpled paper tightly. “You inconsiderate arsehole,” he muttered. “You never think of anyone's feelings but your own.”

***

_August 1859_

_The San Juan Islands_

The room was dark and America was grateful as he rubbed his head. The ache was constant and all he wanted to do was lay his head down on the cool surface of the table. He’d arrived not long ago to find a standoff. Five British warships and over 2000 men. He only had a little over 400... 

“All this over a pig? Really?” America groaned, pulling his glasses off his face and letting them clatter to the desk. The scene with England off the coast of Asia was stuck in his mind, floating up when he couldn’t think of the arguments in Congress and the threats of the South anymore. It was like his own people had decided to just turn on each other. They both wanted different things from him and he couldn’t do it. He was being pulled in too many directions. _**What can I do?**_ _Let me free. **No. Never.**_ _We’ll both die. **Then so be it.**_

A knock came at the door. “There’s an Arthur Kirkland demanding to see you.”

“How does he know I’m here?” said America, jolting up in his seat and turning as the door opened wider. His eyes widened.

“Call it a guess,” said England, walking into the room. “And it’s Lord Arthur Kirkland. Don’t ignore the cultures of a diplomat.” He frowned at the man before the door closed behind him. Facing America, England settled into the chair across the table, arms crossing. “It seems that one of your Captain... Pickett was it? He should certainly never be used as a diplomat. Or anything that requires words outside of Aim, Fire’.”

England looked better than he did the last time he’d seen him. He always wore victory like a kind of cloak that made him more imperious than ever. England was here over an inconsequential issue. Why? “Yeah, that’s why he’s in the military.” America picked up his glasses and fixed them onto his face. “Why have you come here?”

“Well, it is my citizen’s pig that was shot.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.  “I believed the five British warships mounting 70 guns and carrying 2,140 men would be a rather interesting thing to proceed over. “ His head tilted to the side “A change of pace really.”

America frowned. So that’s it. England had come to get back at him over the letters and not becoming an ally in the Opium Wars. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried! What did England care when he was off subjugating the world. He’d never once brought up the things that had happened between them. “And my citizen offered to pay for it. Apparently, British pride not only demands $100 per pig, but also requires those five warships, 70 guns, and 2,140 men to feel secure and powerful.” 

“Don’t be upset with me.” His lips pursed. “Four hundred and sixty-one Americans with 14 cannons? If you wanted to spend more than you should. Your citizen shot my citizen’s pig over potatoes. He bitched about potatoes, it's not like he lives in Ireland, if he's that concerned I shall send Seamus over.”

“No need, I got a letter from him just a few weeks ago. He’s probably in New York right now at my house.” For a moment, he thought to mention Colleen but didn’t know if England was aware of a nation styling herself the Republic of Ireland. An expression crossed England’s face that America couldn’t quite read. Was it jealousy? America leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Maybe your man should have had better fences if he didn’t want his pig to get out so many times and be such a menace that it needed to be killed.”

“I suppose I should have sent out more notices about just how gun happy the Americans are. I'll take that bit of fault. They'll point a gun at anything that hurt their feelings.”

Slamming his hands on the table, America stood up, leaning over him. “And I should have reminded my people that the British are always out to extort you for more even when you’ve paid your fair share.”

“It's called bartering when you know what it’s worth,” England drawled, a bored expression on his face as he leaned forward slightly. “Any whelp, even wet behind the ears knows that.”

“I can see the headlines now, British Empire invades the United States over a potato-eating pig. I’m sure all the colonies will fall in line.” He reached out and hooked his fingers in the collar of England’s uniform coat. “I think it was your admiral that used the word ‘foolish’.”

“He has to use simple words so that non British subjects wouldn't hurt themselves thinking too hard,” he hissed getting in America's face. “Perhaps he should have dumbed it down further.”

America tightened his hold on England’s collar, jerking him forward slightly. He’d gotten under England’s skin and it was oddly satisfying. He’d captured his attention and it had drawn him out into the middle of nowhere. “Then make it simple. Why are you really here?”

“Because. I. Fucking. Can.” A shit eating grin wormed its way into his face. The challenging grin slid onto America’s face in response. He could feel England’s quickening pulse under his fingers and his body responded, his own heart speeding up.

“Fuck you,” he said. 

England stared at him, eyes widening slightly and then settling into a calculating look. “You wish,” he spat, this time his fingers digging into America's coat, jerking him forward, crushing their mouths together.

The kiss hurt, a release of tension that sent sparks shooting up and down his spine. America practically dragged England over the table by his coat, kissing him back with as much eagerness as the long absence had left. England was angry, but he was angry as well. England was safe to be angry at. Something known. The fear that had been plaguing him was shoved down in the wake of England’s biting kiss. He didn’t want it to stop.

“You prat!” England snarled, hands fisting in America's hair, yanking hard before swallowing the other's response. “There are consequences, my boy.” Taking a step back, America’s back pushed into the wall of the narrow room. He didn’t give England a chance to catch his breath, using his leverage to turn their position and press England into the wood and hold him there.

Tightening his hold on America's hair England buckled slightly, mouth opening to America's relentless pursuit as the taller pressed him aggressively harder against the wall. Boots pressing against the wall he shoved back against the other in spite.

Digging in his heels, America held him fast, not letting him gain an inch. “You don’t want to challenge me right now,” said America, voice low.

“I'm the fucking British Empire.” England hissed “I'm not afraid of some upstart nation like yourself who can't even snog properly!” 

“There are things you don’t know about me, Arthur.” The words slurred slightly, a tumble of accents appearing on his tongue. He kissed him again before England could respond, taking control of the kiss. The voice in his head grew quiet as if he were focused on the kiss as well.

Yanking on America's jacket violently, stitches popping in protest, England nipped the boy's tongue in warning. Pulling back for air his fingers found their way into America's collar, undoing the buttons with one hand. “You talk too fucking much.”

“You’re the one that’s still talking,” came America’s muffled reply, hooking his fingers into England's jacket and shoving the red fabric off his shoulders revealing the white fabric of his shirt beneath. England struggled out of the sleeves, his arms wrapping around America’s neck.

***

“Have to do something while we are just standing here.” England spat back, his retort ending in a cry as teeth sunk into his neck. “Fuck!” Knees coming up quickly to dig into America's ribs, a thrill running through him when America didn't even register the sudden added weight in his arms. Dropping his head back against the wall his hands worked their way down America's shirt. Dry hands sliding roughly over hot skin, damp with perspiration.  Long fingers mapping out the lines of America's back as strong hands gripped his hips. It's going to leave bruises, he thought vaguely, a thrill running through him, heat swirling in his belly.

***

America felt like he was in a cloud. A headache that had been plaguing him constantly intensified as his heart began to pound. The front of England’s shirt was rough against his skin where England had pushed his aside. He felt alive where everything around him had felt dead and cold for the last decade and there was no end in sight. Hooking his fingers into England’s collar he tugged, hearing his breath catch when the fabric tightened. Impatient, he yanked, hearing the button pop. Pulling it aside he pressed his face into the crook of England’s shoulder, pulling him tighter and tasting his skin.

***

“You're ripping my clothes.” England protested weakly as more buttons gave way. It was like every lewd novel that his people had produced in their secret writing, it was almost repetitive in nature. Yet now, England realized why it was used so often, it was so very satisfying in person  He’d never let himself think of America’s strength, but the way he could hold him so easily set his body on fire. “Stop stalling!” he dragged America's mouth back to his, kisses sloppy and wet. The room had been stuffy, hot when he walked in and now it was becoming unbearable. He wanted him. “Too many clothes,” he grunted, hands finding America's belt a groan erupting from his throat when America bucked against him in his response. “Alfred,” he hissed. England felt anticipation curl in his chest. It was about damn time.

America’s breath caught when he felt the button on his trousers loosen, England’s fingers on the hem of his small clothes. England tried not to lose his patience, a damn impediment really that the fashion in the United States had turned to more layers rather than less. The skin of America's belly was hot and quivering and England felt a desire for him deep in his bones. Arm tightening around England’s waist, America stepped away from the wall, England unsure what he was doing until he felt himself tipping, the flat surface of America’s table meeting his back. America made quick work on the rest of England’s shirt buttons. Laying his hand on his chest, America leaned up to look at him. Their eyes met and for just a moment, America’s face was unrecognizable. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, gray-blue eyes instead of bright. What? America’s mouth returned to his own, chasing the question from his mind before it could fully form.

***

 ** _No, not now!_** _He’s not yours!_ The headache surged back with painful force and it broke the rhythm of his kiss. He pressed closer to England, liking the feel of England’s slim fingers as they went to work on the cloth at his waist, touching him, fingers going lower, lower...

“Captain Jones?!” The call came, accompanied by a loud knocking at the door.

“Damnation,” America grumbled against the skin of England’s throat. He backed away, leaving England glaring at him on the table. He wished he had more time to look. It was a version of England he’d never seen before, at least not sober, cheeks flushed and half-dressed. He turned away, fixing his clothes so that he could answer the door before someone thought they needed to ‘rescue’ him from the British emissary. He pulled the door open just wide enough for them to see him. “What?”

The young private blinked at him. America hoped that he didn’t look as hot and bothered as he felt. “Sir, there are concerns about the proximity of the warships.”

“No one better fire unless fired upon. We’re discussing terms right now.”

“Of course, sir, forgive my interruption.” 

“Thanks.” America closed the door on him, leaning his forehead against the wood before turning back to England.

England sat up fixing his shirt, fixing his buttons as a flush of embarrassment and irritation colored his cheeks. “Well then.” he cleared his throat.

Awkwardness rushed into America’s chest. He rubbed his arms and walked around the edge of the on the opposite side of England. He wrapped his fingers around the chair back, trying to ground himself. _You’re an absolute fool._ **_Shut up_**.  “I... uhm... I guess we should,” he cleared his throat, “Talk about the matter at hand.” In truth, he wanted to wrap England up in his arms, but he doubted the other would be open to it now.

“It seems that way doesn't it,” England said coolly as he got to his feet, flattening nonexistent wrinkles. “Should know better to get distracted by nonsensical things.” His voice was angry, expression sour.

“Maybe we can come to an agreement that is good for us both?”

“That would be one thing that actually gets done around here,” England muttered under his breath. England brushed past his shoulder, bumping into him. America wanted to grab him, tell him everything, but he couldn’t. Not like this.

“I propose that we should share the island,” America said, trying to smooth his clothes. “I can put a camp on one side and you can have one on the other. That way we won’t have to decide who owns them until later.”

“If we must, I don't see why we should put it off.”

“I... I probably won’t be able to officially negotiate a treaty for a while.”

“Because of the impending civil war.” England sighed, straightening his clothes and headed back towards the chair he’d previously sat in.

America stepped around the table, standing close to him and tracing a line on the wood grain with his finger. “I don’t think we’ll be able to see each other again for a while.”

“Complete silence and all that from you. Something I have come quite used to” His nose wrinkled in disgust making America wanted to hang his head in shame. Not even a hundred years old and already falling apart. What was he supposed to do? He tried to find that thread of anger at England again, warm himself against the cold that threatened to reappear in the void in his chest.

“Engl... Arthur...” He knelt down, looking up at England, “I’m...” What? Falling apart? Afraid? He couldn’t say anything like that to him. Not when he was looking at him like he was something worthless. America grit his teeth. He couldn’t let England see him like this. He stood up. “I’m unable to accommodate your request for a new Oregon Treaty at this time. You’ve wasted your time.”

England leveled an even gaze on him. “It seems I have been wasting my time on many things over the past decades,” he said quietly. 

America hardened his face. **_No, don’t go._** _Please don’t go._ “I suppose we should say goodbye then.”

***

Rigidly getting to his getting to his feet, England gave him an awkward bow from the waist. “It seems that is our only option as you have so decided on your own. As always.” Turning on his heel England knocked the door open, all but stomping out amidst a whirl of irritation and confusion. 

Things had been balancing on the edge of a knife since the incident with the opium. Yet, until now it had leaned in the favor of a much more positive outcome, yet America was pulling back again and with even more mixed signals than before. It was starting to wear on England's nerves. Francis had been making comments for decades, dropping hints that America was infatuated with him. He had been certain that Francis was just being a dolt. Then, others had confirmed his uncomfortable assertion. Then, he’d let himself hope... love was for fools. If America was just going to play with him he wanted no part of it.

Stopping in the doorframe England took a deep breath. He was tired of all this. “If all you wanted was to have a shag with me, Alfred, then you should have just got on with it. This cat and mouse action only works with courting. I know for a fact you would have learned at least that much from your time with Francis.” England said tightly, hurt coloring the edges of his voice before he disappeared outside, the door slamming shut behind him. 

***

“It wouldn’t be like this if that’s what I wanted,” the words tumbling out in a rush, unable to know if England heard. Dots swam in front of his eyes again as emotion welled in his stomach. Stumbling, he caught himself on the table. Tears fell, dripping off his glasses. 

**_It’s for the best._ **

_Oh yes, now he can be mine._

**_Never._ **

_We’ll see._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the chapter please leave us a comment or a kudo! (We love hearing from you!)
> 
> Next chapter: England is roped into Prince Edward's royal visit to Canada and an unofficial visit to the United States on the eve of civil war.


	15. Misplacing the Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England arrives in North America with the Prince of Wales in tow to find that nothing is the way he remembers it. Canada has grown up and is coming into his own and America is as confusing as ever. Will he manage to survive the trip?

_February 1860_

_London, England_

“Edward and I are to what!?” England stared at his two monarchs in utter horror. He paused in cutting Prince Leopold's food for him after the seven-year-old had struggled for long enough. They had been tucking into satisfyingly greasy meats, perfectly risen bread, and a wide variety of fruits with delight when Albert had nonchalantly mentioned that their eldest son, Prince Edward, was to travel to Canada for a Royal visit. In addition, he would travel to the United States as a gesture of goodwill. Not only that, England was to accompany him. 

Four year old Princess Beatrice sat in his lap, quiet, and cheeks puffed with cheeses and fruits, quietly looked up at him in confusion. Patting her small curls gently, England offered a strained smile. It wasn’t often that the royal children supped with their parents, but England had been demanding they do when he dined with the monarchs. Looking to his right, he watched the ten-year-old Prince Arthur give him a speculative expression. Princesses Louise, who was finally twelve, and Helena, who was at the tricky age of fourteen, shared awkward glances with each other. 

“It’s already been decided, Arthur.” Albert smiled and England set his cup down hard, staring at Victoria. 

“You cannot be serious! How can you think this is a good idea, Victoria?” Arthur gaped at his reigning monarch as Prince Alfred leaned forward in interest, scowling when Edward thumped him on the back in admonishment. 

“It's not,” Victoria said flatly, casting a dissatisfied glare at her husband and a warning glare at Edward. “But someone says that an off-handed comment made by the Queen in response to annoying questions is something that must be honored. Louise, Helena, backs straight!!” The two girls straightened on command and England couldn’t help but cast them a sympathetic glance. Victoria had always been very strict with her eldest child and daughter Victoria, who was now twenty and married to a German prince. Now that the Queen was only able to order around her eldest through letters she had turned her sharp tongue on her next two daughters. 

“The Duke of Newcastle did agree with me,” Albert pointed out. “I am certain you remember that the Canadian diplomats requested that, since they served honorably in regiments in the Crimean War, that Victoria come and visit Canada.”

“Which I have said under no terms will I undergo that passage,” Victoria argued. 

“Of course, my dear. But then they asked for one of our sons, to which you replied that they were too young. As Edward is fond of reminding us, he is of age and he will be king someday. It’s important for him to make state visits.”

“I did not promise anything.”

“It will do many good things for our subjects.” Prince Albert turned back to England. “And while you are both over there, it would make the most sense that you two also make appearances in America.”

“And what does a Royal visit to Canada have to do with America?” England interrupted. He shot a pleading glance at Victoria, but it seemed that she no longer wanted anything to do with the conversation. 

“It would be a great chance to build better diplomatic relations with the nation. Certainly, you can see that.”

“I agree with Arthur.” Victoria sighed. “I have no desire to have my ne’er-do-well son step foot in the land of traitors. We couldn’t even rely on them in the Crimean War. Why should we honor them with the presence of the royal family? We should just have them visit Canada and be on the first boat out of there.” 

“We already agreed with Victoria. The Duke of Newcastle has already decided on the schedule. You two will be starting the trip in Canada, at the ceremony of the new Victoria Bridge being constructed across the St. Lawrence River in the city of Montreal.” Albert smiled, turning his attention back to his plate. 

Silence fell across the room with the exception of the cutlery clinking against their plates. England stared at the pair in silent horror, the eyes of the children flicking between him and their parents. Just last year he had spoken with America, and it seemed best if they kept their distance from one another. Leaning over he pressed a kiss to the top of Beatrice's curls, suddenly having no appetite. 

Fate was a cruel mistress. 

***

_Late September 1860_

_Montreal, Canada_

“Matthew.” England smiled, waving in greeting at the nation as he hurried up the gangplank towards him and Prince Edward. The boat had come in quickly with the morning tide, the weather good for their voyage into the harbor. 

Canada was smiling, but looked nervous all the same. It was his first royal visit, after all. “Thank you for coming,” he said, quietly. England couldn’t help the smile that broke upon his face. Canada’s enthusiasm and excitement practically rolled off him, but he kept it restrained.

“So, I take it that you have things all planned out.” He looked at the people surrounding them, peering over and around guards as Edward leaned over the edge of the ship to wave at them. He watched the crown prince for a brief moment before turning back to look at Matthew, frowning. “Have you gotten taller again?”

Canada nodded. “Of course, I’ve prepared things.” He paused and took in England’s appearance. “I suppose I have grown a little more...”

England scowled. _Why am I suddenly the shortest?_ He shook his head, putting on a more pleasant expression. “Well, perhaps we should get going. The colonial secretary said we are here for a bridge opening correct?”

***

The journey through Canada had few hiccups. Other than Ireland’s people threatening protests, things went smoothly and the Prince was enjoying himself. Canada worked hard to make it memorable. England couldn’t blame him, realizing it was the first visit in too long. Canada was growing up and England couldn’t help but see it. The poor boy had been unsure of himself for a long time, but now was growing in a sense of identity. Perhaps he was ready for some more responsibility.

The quiet evening they claimed in Montreal was complete bliss. Edward had been occupied with the family of the mayor and the pair of nations had retired to Matthew’s private parlor with hot drinks and familiarity. “So I take it everything is going well. I have not seen or felt any tension since my arrival, Matthew.”

“It’s usually fairly peaceful around here,” said Canada, a small smile on his face.

“I meant with you.” England settled into one of the armchairs by the chatty fire. 

Canada sat down across from him in the second armchair, cradling his cup in his hands. “Yes, I’ve been fine. Quiet, too.” A small smile crossed his face.

“And...well…” England looked at him the smile he had falling “I must admit I hoped to catch you privately like this as I have some concerns.”

“Concerns? About what?”

“Francis.” He swirled his cup around as if debating. “If...I was thinking of going to war with him, to bring him down, I would like you there by my side. To watch, and help. Even perhaps, the honor of clapping him in irons.” He smiled wickedly “To think that a colony would do that to a nation.” There had been several rumors circulating, he intended to find out the truth of them.

Canada dropped his gaze, fingers twitching on the rim of his cup. His brow furrowed, thinking before he spoke. He swallowed. “If you asked me to do it, I would do my duty.” His voice was soft.

“With no conflict whatsoever?” England arched a brow. “I've never known you to lie to me, Matthew, so I am glad to know what I am hearing is to be the truth.”

“I... I said I would do my duty... but... he’s...” Canada stood up abruptly, trying to turn away, but England could catch the flush that had spread across his cheeks. Crouching down, Canada took the fireplace poker to make absent-minded jabs at the logs. “I never said I would desire the task.” 

England heaved a sigh. “Honestly, I did not expect to have to drag this out of you. Are the rumors true?”

Canada stood up and rubbed his hands on his trousers. “Rumors, eh? What did you hear?”

“That you have welcomed Francis into your bed.”

The color drained from Canada’s face. He looked anywhere but at England. He stepped behind his empty chair and gripped the back. “I...” His voice wobbled. “Who would say something like that?”

“Everyone. The questions I’ve been asked or the things mentioned to me. And you can’t think I am blind. I've watched you at court when he is present.” England’s voice was hard. 

Canada bit his lip, the truth written all over his face. “He is... he is a special person to me. I...” He took a deep breath. “I do spend time with him where we are alone...”

“I see.” England said tightly. 

“I swear to you that I do not betray any confidences or information. Nor does he ever ask if you’re concerned...” The words came out quickly, almost practiced like he had turned them over in his head more than a few times. “I’m loyal to you.”

“But the rumors are true.” It was more of statement than a question. 

Canada’s head drooped, his long hair falling over his face. It was obvious that he was trying to find some way to still deny it even though every line in his body confirmed the facts presented. “I’m sorry...”

England sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose “There is no reason to apologize... was this your choice?

“He never put a hand on me until I asked him to and even then... Francis is not to blame for initiating... I did that.”

England watched him quietly “All right.”

Canada looked up at him, surprise across his face. “All right?”

“Do you think me daft, Matthew? I know for a fact that the minute I tell you to cut off all ties with Francis you will go on sleeping with him behind my back more fervently then you have previously.”

Canada walked slowly around the chair and sat down, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I would try to do as you wished.”

“And do you truly think me cruel enough to do that?”

“No, I just... I know you don’t approve...”

“You’re trying to separate from me anyways. So, I don’t think you desire my approval,” England muttered, focusing hard on his tea.

“That’s not fair. I didn’t declare independence... you were the one that said I should have more autonomy so that I can better react when threatened. I’m not trying to leave the empire.” 

England dragged his hand through his hair “It’s...it doesn't matter. At least I'm not being dragged around by rumors and prodded with whispers from other nations no more... I shall talk to Francis on my own time.”

“I’m surprised anyone gossips about me...”

“A colony sleeping with the nation who founded him and now claimed by the British Empire who was famously sleeping with said nation? Yes, people talk,” he said dryly. 

“I would think the scandal with Alfred...” Canada froze, a hand going over his mouth. “I... not that I listen to gossip.”

England's eyes narrowed. “What scandal with your brother?”

“About you... and him.” 

“Ah.” England snorted. “That,” he waved his hand, “is of no concern to me.”

Canada looked at him, a mix of embarrassment and shame still on his face. “Truly?”

“That rumor has been around for decades. It's nothing new.”

“If you don’t have a care for that rumor... why did you pay attention to the other, if I may ask? People were always going to say something... weren’t you two rather notorious? Alfred never really paid much attention, but I... well, I paid attention.”

“I was paying attention because it was involving you and Francis.”

“Alfred told me you suspected during the London Exhibition... why did you wait so long to ask?”

“Because I was hoping that you would come to me, and tell me rather than let me hear it from everyone else,” he said quietly. “And when you did not I thought it best to ask or else I feared I would never hear it from your mouth until something detrimental happened.”

“Until my heart is inevitably broken you mean.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” England said sharply.

“I’m not as naive as Alfred. I know that falling in love is a bad idea.”

“At least... no. I would have to disagree with the statement that falling in love is wrong. But it’s nothing easy.”

Canada looked away from him to the fire. “Have you ever been in love?”

“No. I can’t say I have. And I don’t ever plan to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have time for that kind of folly.”

“It’s not really my place to say, but... Alfred won’t hear that.”

“Well, then he can be man and come speak to me,” England said sharply. 

“He probably will.” Canada was quiet for a minute, watching the fire as he curled up into his chair. Hardly proper, but comfortable. “We can’t always choose who we love.” His voice was quiet, barely audible over the crackle of the flames.

“And that's why problems happen.”

***

_Early October 1860_

_Niagara Falls_

“Arthur?” England turned, seeing Canada walking towards him. It had drawn him away from staring across the Niagara River. The time in Canada was ending soon and emotions curled in his chest. “You seem lost in thought.”

“Yes. Just thinking about what I am going to have to endure over the next several weeks.” England shook his head with a sigh. It was something that had plagued his mind ever since Albert had told him of the North American trip. He had argued continuously over the proceeding couple months. While he had been secretly pleased at the notion to visit Alfred, but what he really wanted was for them to spend some time alone. The pomp and circumstance of a political visit would bring nothing but fake smiles and no chance to talk. 

“He’s... been acting very strange lately. I... haven’t been to see him.” Canada walked over to the railing and leaned on his elbows. His cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the interior of the steamship and the autumn wind plucked at his hair. In the dim light, his new height gave him an even greater likeness with America. There had been moments where England had turned around with Alfred’s name on his lips, but Matthew’s face in front of him. “The last time we spoke wasn’t long after you sent word that you were coming along with Prince Edward. He seemed as excited as Edward has on this trip.”

“Anything to get away from the stern gaze of his mother I am afraid.” England smiled. “No child wants to be watched by their parents, or anyone of older ages when they reach a certain spot in their lives. They think that they no longer need any guidance and that they can take the world on alone. That they are invincible.” England looked back at the water. “But that changes. Challenges arise and things get hard but most won't admit to their mistakes and they will flounder until some form of aid is offered, although they will never admit or see it.” He shook his head as he watched the loud waterfall.

“I like the Prince. He’s a cheerful person. Maybe Alfred’s spirits will be lifted to have another exuberant person. He’s been very... not himself.” Canada glanced at him sidelong. “I think he’ll be happy to see you. It’s been a long time since you’ve been to visit us.”

“Perhaps. We had a rather nasty falling out.” England shrugged, but shot him an apologetic glance. “I don't get the chance to travel often as of late.”

Canada’s brow furrowed. “He didn’t say a word about it...” He stood up from the railing and turned back to the waterfall, a small twist in his lips. “Alfred’s been good at keeping secrets lately. I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for an apology though.”

“People only apologize to you only if they hold even a smidgen of respect for you... I never expect an apology from him.”

Canada was quiet, eyes falling to the deck of the steamboat. He bit his lip, chewing over his thoughts. England sighed, but Canada looked back at him and gave him a small smile. “There’s still some entertainments to be had before you have to go see America. His Highness said he was looking forward to another party.”

“I don't know where Edward gets the energy.” England ran his hands through his hair with a yawn. “I feel like I could sleep for decades and still wake up tired.”

“Well, you have been through a lot,” said Canada. “I can accompany him if you’d like to rest... I will do my best to make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“No, it's all right.” He squeezed Canada's shoulder. “I really do appreciate the offer.”

Canada nodded, although his face still looked unsure. The riverboat stayed out on the water for a brief while longer and then began to head back towards the town. Soon enough, Prince Edward was bounding over to where England and Canada stood, still grinning despite the later hour. “Arthur, we’ve been invited to the mayor’s house for cards. May we go?”

“How about we don't?” England shook his head. “We have so many things to take care of tomorrow and it's rather late. Plus, despite who you are I doubt his wife will be all too happy to neglect her bed for a card game.” He sighed as the young prince frowned, mouth opening to argue. “We have barely started this trip. If you burn out now we shall be in quite a predicament.”

“I do not see how that will be possible,” said Edward. “I expect that the Americans will have similar entertainments. Do you really think they are as strange as some of the writers say?” Canada blushed, England had heard more than a few of his people muttering about absurd Americans and how they were worried for the prince’s safety.

“There's a reason I brought extra guards... and ammunition,” England said flatly. 

“Honestly, Arthur, I doubt they have anything like that in mind. They are cousins of sorts are they not? Like Mr. Taylor’s play?”

“Eccentric cousins perhaps.”

“Well, I’m interested to meet them.” The Prince turned to Canada and the two began to discuss tomorrow’s activities. England turned back to the rail and towards the other side of the river.

“Eccentric indeed.”

***

_Mid-October 1860_

_Detroit, Michigan_

America bounced on the balls of his feet on the dock. The grin on his face felt natural. President Buchanan had said he seemed almost back to his old self. America hoped that it was true, he’d thought about his last fight with England over and over in his mind. It hadn’t been what he’d meant at all. _This sort of game is only appropriate when courting, Alfred,_ England had said. 

“You’re right,” said America to the ship that he could see in the distance now. Soon enough any thoughts he had were drowned by the cheers of the spectators who had gathered to greet the Prince of Wales.

***

“Bloody hell, they are louder than the Canadians!” Edward stared in disbelief, clutching his hat to his head as the wind threatened to snatch it. Leaning against the railing England kept his back to the crowds in the harbor, eyes watching Edward with a small smile. They had only spent two months in the country of Canada before leaving for the United States. 

England still remembered the despair he felt when he had finally gotten his hands on the trip's itinerary. The trip through the United States was going to be exhausting. Just that morning they had boarded a ferry at Windsor and had set out across the water for America, and, with each minute as the shores of Detroit grew closer, he felt his uncertainty increase. He was pleased beyond belief that Edward was enjoying himself, but he did not want to be here. He didn't trust himself after the debacle in the San Juan Islands. Rubbing at the corner of his eye, his mind raced over options. His best bet was to remain as staunch and diplomatic as possible. Avoid unnecessary emotions and situations. Schooling his face into his usual expression, one that France called grumpy, he watched silently as the boat docked.

The ship landed and America bounded up the gangplank, ahead of his politicians who were trying to contain their own enthusiasm. The Prince went to greet them leaving England at the railing. America made his way through the crowd on deck. “Arthur!”

Where England had been worried before now he felt disbelief. The boy had been dismissive of him on the island and now he was acting like this? It was so inconsiderate. “Master Jones,” he said tightly. 

America extended a hand. “I’m so glad you’re here! You haven’t been to Detroit, have you? We’ve got a lot of things planned. Show the place off. I can’t wait to show you some of the changes I’ve made in New York. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”

He stared at the hand before shaking it. “I'm sure His Highness will appreciate it.”

America gripped his hand, not releasing him right away. “I hope so. Everyone is really excited. C’mon, we’ll get you set up. The mayor of Detroit has a meal planned.”

“Thrilling I'm sure,” he said coolly, pulling his hand loose to shove it in his pocket. America didn’t seem to miss a step. 

“Let’s go then.” America waved an arm and let England step in front of him. The noise was overwhelming. “It’s like most of Michigan is here!” The crowd around the dock was immeasurable, England couldn’t even begin to count them all. Shouting erupted and a splash. America hurried forward, and England elbowed him out of the way to get closer to the Prince.

“Edward!” England snapped grabbing the Prince’s arm and pulling him back as American citizens rushed the boat. England watched in horror as one of Edward's royal escort flipped over the edge of the boat as the crowd surged forward. Bodies slamming into each other in their excitement “What the bloody fuck!?” England snarled, pushing in front of the Prince. “Guards!” he screeched as another splash sounded. His own royal party was being knocked in the water!

It took a lot of shouting and some people to get those that had fallen overboard back, but eventually, they made it into the carriage to take them to the governor’s house. America had crammed in next to the governor who was apologizing profusely for the oversight. “There hasn’t been much to celebrate lately... I guess everyone got too excited,” America cut in.

England glared daggers at America, briefly acknowledging the governor, before returning to the other nation. Edward waved at people, much calmer than before as he cast a nervous glance at England. Edward’s reaction to the situation was laughter, and he’d earned a cuff to the ear for it.

The procession through the city was slow, well-wishers coming out by the thousands to try and catch a glimpse of a member of the Royal family. America seemed full of stories, speaking of everything and nothing. England ignored him. They pulled up to the Governor’s House and they poured out, gaining a little bit of time to prepare for dinner and Michigan society. America showed them to their rooms at the house. “I’ll see you at dinner, Arthur? I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk,” he said, catching England before the door closed between them.

Holding the door open he stared at America. “Which is it then?” He frowned “Supper or talk?” He looked at the two guards stationed outside of his room. His own were standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, supper and then talk?” 

“Possibly. I'll probably be tired afterward. Traveling, having members of my court knocked into the harbor in questionable territory. It's all rather taxing.”

Disappointment crossed America’s face. “That’s your prerogative I guess... there’s some time. I’ll see you at dinner then.”

“I suppose so, Master Jones.” England nodded before closing the door between them. Exhaustion causing his shoulders to sag. This was going to be harder than he had expected. Shrugging out of his coat he tossed it on a chair near the door, kicking off his shoes, followed by his blue bowtie, the cuffs on his sleeves, all falling to the floor. Shuffling across the carpet to flop on the bed, trousers and shirt wrinkling in protest. “Dammit,” he muttered. This would all be so much easier if America wasn’t being an inconsistent arse.

***

England ignored him at dinner. Then for the next several days. It was short sentences and hardly a hint of acknowledgment. Even on the train headed for Chicago, England closed himself up in his compartment and wouldn’t speak to him. America sat with a piece of paper spread over his knees, watching the countryside roll by. Glancing up at the window, America caught sight if his reflection. Could England see how thin his face was? Did he care? That question tugged at him the most. Shaking his pen slightly ink dropped onto the page. 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Please. I’d like to speak to you in Chicago._

_Yours truly,_

_Alfred_

He flagged a porter and sent it along, hoping for a response.

***

“A fucking letter,” England said flatly staring at the handwritten note. 

“From Alfred?” Edward looked away from the passing countryside to look at Arthur. 

“Yes, Alfred.” England's lip curled as he crumpled up the note and tossed it onto the seat. “We made plans to pretend that we would never interact unless it was unavoidable and here he is trying to act like nothing has changed. That the entire incident did not occur.” England glared out the window and the Crown Prince watched in amusement. 

“Ah.” The Prince gave him a curious look, a smile appearing on his face. England glanced at him, the boy was acting suspiciously. “I need to stretch my legs.” Edward pushed out of his seat with exaggerated stretching. 

“Edward, you should not wander around the train by yourself.”

“Oh, don't bother. There are guards everywhere, Arthur. Stay sitting. Stay sitting.” The young prince waved off his nation's concern. 

***

A whistling figure stopped outside of America's compartment, rapping the door loudly. “Master Jones, the prince is here to see you,” a voice chortled.

America had been trying to keep his headache at bay but jumped up immediately. Prince Edward wanted to talk to him? “Sure, come in,” he said.

All but sweeping into the room the Prince of England dropped himself into a seat across from him. “We just got your letter.” 

Blinking, America was surprised. He leaned back in his seat, trying to get a handle on the teenager. The look on his face was mischievous and it reminded America of the boy’s mother, whom he’d met at about the same age years and years ago. “Did he have a message?”

“In return? No.” He shook his head. “He crumpled it like rubbish and tossed it.”

America looked away, eyes tripping over the scenery dashing by out of the train window. Many of the trees were bare now, October stripping the leaves away. America wanted to lean his head against the glass, but President Buchanan had told him to hold it together. “Oh,” he said.

“You two really should talk you know.” Edward smiled.

“I’m not the one trying to avoid him.”

“I really don't care.” Edward shrugged. “Who is ignoring whom and all that, sounds like the sort of problem for a ladies powder room.” He propped his chin in his hand. “It was all so tiresome, that I got up and left my compartment.”

For a moment, America was confused, but then it struck him. He grinned at the young man. “You’re welcome to use my space here for some peace and quiet, your Highness.” The prince grinned back and America hopped up from his seat and slipped into the hallway. England’s compartment was a car up and he hesitated in the space between the cars. The chains rattled and clanked, and it hid the pounding of his heart in his ears. Taking a deep breath he entered the car and slid the door open. England was bent over a book and didn’t even look up as America dropped into the prince’s vacant seat.

A retort about proper etiquette rose to England's lips when the door slid open. Yet, the steps didn't sound like Edward. And there would only be one other person who would enter the compartment in such a manner. “Yes, Alfred?”

“Prince Edward said you got my letter and pitched it away. And here you said you missed my letters.” 

“I never said I missed your letters. I wondered why you were being so rude. Though I shouldn't have bothered.” He kept his eyes on his book. “I thought we were not speaking to each other. Or perhaps I missed your apology and my offer of forgiveness.”

America frowned. England was still mad about that. America bit his lip, leaning back against the seat and crossing his arms. “I figured we could talk now. I know the visit isn’t technically official... but we’re both here and... like I tried to tell you before... I wanted to write you, I just didn’t know what to say.” 

“I feel like I'm in a canyon. Bloody awful echo in here,” England said flatly.

Sighing, America slumped in his seat. Frustrated, he nudged England’s foot with his own. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don't want you to make up anything to me.”

“I don’t care. I’m making it up to you.” America stood up, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small package. “I brought you some candy.”

England finally looked up from his book and stared at him “Candy... you are making up years of ignoring, then what you did on the west coast... and you want to use sweeties to make it all better?”

“What I did? I’m pretty sure you were right there with me.” Dropping the package on England’s book, he smiled and winked. “It’s not the only thing. I’ve got a present for you in Chicago, too.” He put his hand on the sliding door and looked back at him. “I’ll leave you to your book. You know where to find me.” With that, he strolled into the corridor.

“And you said you wanted to talk,” England muttered to himself, shoving the sweets onto the seat. “Once again you lied with silence... fuck you.”

***

The crowd in Chicago was even larger than Detroit. Fifty thousand spectators crowded around the streets and cheered at the hotel where they’d all been placed. It was late and the noise had just started to quiet. America told himself he wasn’t lurking in the hallway, but he was waiting. A door opened in the hall and America turned the corner, happy when he saw England coming out of the prince’s lodgings. “Arthur!” 

“Master Jones,” England responded tightly. The boy kept popping up everywhere as if he was following him. “Is there something you needed?”

“I thought we could go for a drink.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to decline.” England shrugged into his jacket. “So sorry. Frightfully busy,” he drawled.

“Then I’ll accompany you. How can I help?”

“No, I can handle it. But thank you.” The rejection was fast, biting.

England was walking away from him and America was struck with a flurry of emotions that felt ancient. He took a few steps forward and caught the back of England’s jacket. “If you’re going out I should go with you, you don’t know the city.”

England stared straight ahead, as if torn between tearing away from America's grasp and turning to look at him. “What do you want?”

“To be with you while you’re here. It’s been a long time and who knows when we’ll get another chance?” America bit his lip. “Have a drink with me.”

“Why?” England said flatly.

“So I can explain what’s going on, and why... why I was so absent.”

“I don't have a decade for what you need to explain. You can have the evening.”

America hooked an arm around his shoulders and started off directing them down the hallway. “It’s a start.” England struggled a little, but America didn’t let him go. He directed him to a door in the hotel lobby where the lamps had been turned down due to the late hour. The door led to a hotel bar, a lantern flickering. America directed England onto a barstool and then slipped over to his other side.

“The hotel bar... I would have thought your tastes may have gotten better over the last couple of years, but it seems that I am wrong,” England muttered “Barkeep! Ale!” He rapped his knuckles on the counter to get the man's attention. England leaned back on the stool, removing his coat. 

“If you were looking for somewhere more raucous, I know a place,” he said, ordering a beer after England’s ale arrived. 

“No. You said you wanted to talk. I'll need to hear you for that.” he sighed, lifting the stein to his mouth, drinking heartily as he waved for a second. Lowering the glass he looked at America over its rim.

America hesitated, rubbing at a scratch on the bar until his beer arrived. He took a long draw, draining half of the glass before clearing his throat and straightening his glasses. “I don’t know if you’ll want to hear what I’m going to say.”

“There are few things in this world that could shock me, Alfred,” England said flatly. “You made the decision to be rid of me and now you won't leave me alone. Out with it.”

“That’s the thing... I don’t want to be rid of you. I want to protect you.”

England took his second ale, eyeing America with a show of boredom. “You do realize you are talking to the British Empire.”

“Is that who kissed me in his smoking room? Who pulled me close to the sitting room? Was it the British Empire who wanted me in my office in the San Juans? I thought I was kissing Arthur.”

“Keep your voice down!” England hissed looking around. “Why are you bringing up indecent flukes?” 

“They weren’t flukes. I meant it.”

“So you had plans to indecently snog me and then prance away.”

America huffed, downing the last of his beer. “If you recall it was you who pranced away the last time...” America bit his tongue and winced. Covering the gesture up by finishing his beer. “I don’t...”

England gave him a deadpanned look. “Oh... I didn't realize you had problems in that area... my apologies.”

America’s face turned scarlet. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Uh huh.” England lifted his ale again. 

America stared at him, cheeks still red. He looked around, there were very few people present, everyone, out of earshot in smoky corners. “Well, you never gave me a chance to prove otherwise,” he mumbled. “If it makes you feel better.”

“Oh come off it. You keep running away like some chaste maiden.”

Cheeks dark, America waved for another beer. “Chastity is a virtue isn’t it?” 

“Well, so glad it's working for you.” England sighed, pulling his pipe box from his coat pocket.

America frowned, leaning on his elbows on the bar. He ran his hands through his hair. “Good to know that you still think what you want about me, despite anything I say. Our ‘indecent flukes’ as you call them weren’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk to you about what’s happening with me.”

“I have to think what I want since you never provide any information or proof that challenges it.” England waved for another ale. “And if you want to talk then get on with it. The evening won't last forever.”

_Don’t tell him._ **_Shut up._** _No_. **_Damn you_**. America rubbed his forehead. “I’m worried about the election. I think if the Republican candidate, Lincoln, wins something is going to happen. The past decade has been nothing but fighting. Hell, longer than that. I feel like I am...” _Now you shut up._ **_Go away_**. _Oh, bless your heart._ America grit his teeth. “I said goodbye to you a year ago because I’m worried about what you will do.”

“What I will do? It's none of my bloody business remember? You did your damn hardest to make sure I was aware of that back in the 1700’s,” he said flatly.

Grabbing him by the arm, America jerked him, hard. “Look at me.” England faced him, a glare on his face. For a moment, America’s expression was open, worry and stress evident on his face showing the sickly color his skin had taken on. “I thought you were beginning to understand. I thought...” He looked down at the hand gripping England’s sleeve. He released him. “I’m an idiot. You’re a damn jackass.” Turning back to his beer he tipped it back and drank the entire thing.

“Yes, you are. If it took you this long to realize it.” England shrugged, swallowing thickly. “Now, I keep waiting for you to talk to you said you would. Still waiting.” 

America glared into his pint glass. “If something happened to me what would you do?”

England stayed quiet for a moment, uncertain how to answer. “You mean you or the country?” 

“Is there a difference?”

England gave the younger man a sideways glance  “There is, to an extent, of course.” 

“To the nation of the United States of America.”

“If it was falling apart? At the mercy of the world? Unable to rebuild?” England nodded, tipping his liquor around inside the cup. “Honestly? Truthfully? Which you deserve truth... I'd probably attempt to reconquer.” 

America swallowed. “Truth for truth then. We’d still fight you. I’d fight you.” He took a deep breath. “What would you do if something happened to me, Alfred F. Jones?”

“Nothing less than I expected.” England sighed  “Need something sweet.” He pursed his lips, swallowing. Glancing around the bar England bided his time, more than comfortable with the silence outlined with tension that swelled between them. There were too many responses and all of them had a double meaning.  There was no real clean and cut answer to that type of question. This wasn’t really something that he expected out of the younger. Especially not in a place such as some half rated hotel bar. And everyone seemed to forget just how greedy he truly was. “I'd raise all hell.”

Looking up from his cup, America watched him, wondering if it was true. _He’s just saying that._ **_Quiet._** “Arthur, I...” He reached out and touched the back of his hand, just a brush, nothing that would make anyone suspicious in public. “I was a little afraid of that, to be honest.”

“Welcome to the real world, sadly. Everything isn't blue roses.”

“When...” America squeezed his eyes shut, the headache surging forward. “When I left you... I can’t do this here. Come with me?”

“I did promise you the evening.” England sighed. 

Dropping money on the bar, America gathered up his coat and pulled it on. He held up England’s for him, while he slid into it. “Follow me.” They walked out of the front of the hotel and strolled into the quiet streets. It was a crisp fall night, the moon only slightly peeking out leaving the road's dark. Hailing a carriage, they hopped inside, not speaking for the brief ride to the north of the city. The driver seemed confused, but he let them out all the same. America walked with determination towards the edges of the city, the roads changing from rough cobbles to dirt. Pausing at a split-rail fence, America hopped over the top of it and offered a hand to England. “Come on.”

“Are we trespassing?” England frowned, watching him. “I really don’t have the time to deal with the American Court System.”

“It’s only trespassing if you get caught, it’s a shortcut.” He reached over the fence and pulled England closer. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

“I swear if we get arrested,” England hissed, grabbing the fence and hoisted himself over, heavy boots muffled by the soft dirt. Tugging up his collar as if to cover his face he scowled at the other. “Don't dawdle. I don't want to get caught.”

America felt a smile creep onto his face and he grabbed England by the hand, moving deeper into the dark property and towards a wood. The leaves slipped against their clothes and rattled as they fell to the ground. Their boots crunched on the leaves. Water could be heard nearby. “I know you’ve been to it before, but there’s nothing I’ve ever known like the Mississippi.” They emerged onto the shoreline, a small covered dock stretching out to some bobbing boats. In the distance, larger ships floated at anchor, waiting to go up the river and out through the Erie Canal. Pulling him over to the dock, their footsteps sounding hollow on the planks, America sat. He looked up at England, “Aren’t you going to sit with me?”

“We are risking being arrested so that we can sit on a fucking dock?!” England stared at him “The bad thing about this is I'm not even surprised!” he grumbled, settling on the dock next to him. Tugging at his sleeves before shoving his hands into his pockets, he prepared himself for the cold breeze that always carried itself across the water. 

“It belongs to the mayor, he won’t have us arrested,” said America, shrugging. “Out here we can talk a little more freely. There’s a lot of things I never told you... I didn’t think you wanted to hear. I guess that’s only making it worse, huh?”

Feet swinging over the edge, England heaved a sigh. “All you keep saying is that you have things to tell me, but you still have yet to tell me.”

America leaned back in his hands. He hesitated. “When I declared independence there were a lot of reasons. My people wanted freedom from the king, the ability to make their own choices. We needed to be free... I was really angry with you back then. I felt like I was talking to a brick wall... one that I couldn’t just knock down. I was mad because you didn’t see me. Then, after our second war I thought that you did... and when you kissed me back I thought I couldn’t be happier. Then I got... I don’t know... scared isn’t really the right word.” Rubbing the back of his head he didn’t look away from the river.

“You…” England sighed “What the hell do you mean I never saw you? I came and talked to you whenever I could. I found you.”

“You found me... and you wanted me to be like you. I couldn’t be... and when I got older I didn’t want to be. Then when I was free, I hoped... well, I hoped that we, well, that you would see me for myself, not for what you thought I should be.” He took a deep breath. “Then I got busy with my side of the Atlantic and I’m... afraid now. That’s what I couldn’t tell you in my letters, what I never wanted to tell you.”

“That you were growing up?” England looked at him in disbelief. “I've been watching you do that for decades.”

“Right before I kissed you years ago, you told me that you thought I was growing up fine. Did you mean it?”

England stared at the water, jaw clicking as it tensed. This was once again not what he was expecting. He was not supposed to be having this kind of talk with America of all people.  “I suppose.” 

America looked at him. “Since I’m grown up now, would you consider respecting a request of mine?”

“I wouldn’t consider you grown up,” England argued. “And the irony of you using the word respect.” He shook his head. “I shall hear you out at least.”

“If something happens to me, don’t raise hell. I don’t want you to get hurt over me again.”

“Alfred, civil wars are hard enough as it is,” England sighed, “taking that attitude is not going to make anything easier.” 

“I don’t want you to get involved okay? Please?” He gripped England’s fingers in his own. 

“I won't make any promises. You know that I cannot control every aspect of my people.” 

“No more than I can mine... but you, Arthur, I want you to stay away. I don’t want you in the crossfire. I want everyone to stay away.”

“That’s privacy. You don't really get that now as a nation. It was a privilege of being a colony” England said quietly, propping his hand in his chin to watch him as a cold wind rushed across the water disrupting the moon's reflection. 

_He’ll be mine._ ** _No_**. _He’s as much said it._ “None of this would have happened if I was still a colony. Arthur, please.” The desperation in his voice surprised him. His fingers had closed on England’s arm without even thinking. His eyes searched England’s face in the darkness. “Do you think I deserve this...?”

“No one deserves a civil war, Alfred,” England said tightly. “But I warned you. I can't...England can't do anything for you. And Arthur can't promise to get involved, not when you've practically dragged me in.” He licked his lips, chapped by the night air.

America didn’t move for a moment, his face falling. Lifting a shaking hand, he put it on top of England’s on the wooden deck. “Promise me anyway, and then do your best. I’m... I might not be myself soon.”

“Don't ask me to lie to you.” He frowned.

“Then don’t lie. Mean it.” He shifted, putting his hand on England’s cheek. _You’re wasting your time._ ** _No, I’m not._** _We can both see it, he’ll say it to make you happy. Or... perhaps he’ll surprise us_.

England stiffened. America had always been touchy. “I-I can promise... that I will briefly consider it. I can offer nothing more,” he said.

America let his hand drop. A sad smile came to his face. “At least things haven’t changed that much.” He shifted, putting space between them. “I arranged a trip to the country for you and the prince in a few days. I’ve become an unfortunate expert in headaches.” He pushed off the dock and landed in one of the boats. It sank a little bit into the water, making America’s hips level with the dock.

England crossed his arms, watching the other. “So all of that lead up for years... for you to say that.”

“I... well, there’s more, but words don’t really do it justice.” He pulled himself forward on the dock, his chest pressing up against England’s knees. “I know I offended you last time, but...” He leaned up a bit, pressing a kiss lightly to the corner of the mouth.

“I thought I told you that this isn't a game.” England scowled turning his head so that the kiss would hit his cheek instead. 

Gripping the edges of the dock to keep himself from tipping over, America sighed, leaning his head down so he didn’t have to see England’s face.“I’m not playing.”

“Uh-huh. Well, if you aren't playing that's good because you are not winning.” England gripped the edges of the dock as he was nearly unbalanced. 

“Is that right? I guess we’ll see.” Indeed, we will. America sat down in the boat. “Can you untie me?”

England raised a brow “I don't think you can count this little dingy me taking you sailing by the way.” He shook his head, leaning over to tug at the knot.

“It’s a river anyway. And I’m the one who knows the way back to the hotel.”

Rolling his eyes England gripped the edge of the dock, pushing himself off, dropping the short distance into the boat with a mutter “Not very gentlemanly.”

“When have I ever claimed that I’m a gentleman?” America said, picking up the oars as England settled across from him. 

“I never said you have. Even you aren't that delusional,” England drawled, leaning back against the side. Pushing the boat away from the dock, they drifted out into the current. America nudged England’s boot with his own. 

“Maybe I’m meant to be something else.”

“Like I said. I never said anything.” England shrugged, dropping his head back against the edge, the familiar rock of a boat on the water a soothing feeling. He yawned, tugging at his collar as he looked back at the sky. 

There was hardly a cloud obscuring the stars. Thousands of glittering jewels up there in a black painted sky. It was like the depths of the ocean which even he had yet to fully explore. Humans had yet to create technology to plunge fully into the ocean depths or to pierce the sky. Someday. America watched him as he pulled at the oars to keep them to the edge of the river and out of the swifter currents. That strange comfort had settled over them, the one that even though they were angry and fighting they could still capture some peace. “I’m glad you came.”

“The Crown told me to.” England sighed. “I was planning to keep our promise of not seeing each other.”

“Maybe we’re just bad at keeping promises.”

“Or making promises we shouldn't be,” England countered, closing his eyes. America could see the exhaustion from the weeks of traveling lining his face.

America was quiet, the little boat becoming surrounded by the sounds of the river, the lapping of the waves, the dip of the oars. The sounds of water birds and sailors would sometimes arise breaking the natural quiet. England’s face began to smooth as he drifted off to sleep. For a moment, America considered directing the boat onto the shore and curling up beside England, pulling him into his arms, finding out what would happen. It was too dangerous though, the gaps in his memory were too wide. The voice was getting louder. He let the river carry them back, reaching over to shake England’s shoulder, he said, “We’ve got a short walk back.”

“With all the bothering,” England muttered, rubbing his eyes and getting to his feet. “Well, let's go then.” He tugged his coat tighter, mumbling about the cold.

They walked down the street, quiet and narrow. Arriving at the hotel, a sleepy bellboy took their coats. “I guess we should say goodnight then... I’m on the upper floor.” He stood awkwardly, torn between reaching out to him and resisting the urge to dart away. A headache surged. 

 “Yes. Have a pleasant evening,” England said tersely. Not sure what else to do, America loped up the stairs to his room.

***

Returning to his own room England looked to Edward who was sleeping quietly in his bed. Carefully and silently England shrugged out of his jacket and vest in the light of the single candle that was flickering itself to sleep. Sitting down as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. Why did he have to be here? Why did he have to go through all of this? Dragging his hands over his face England inhaled shakily. So much could have happened just a mere hour ago, it was like they were standing on the edge of a great precipice and even too deep of a breath would send them tumbling into whatever chasm they were peering into. But that was the biggest part of the problem, he had no clue what it was they were rushing towards like a carriage with runaway horses. He couldn’t seem to get a solid grasp on anything in the emotional whirlpool they were drowning in. Hands fisting in his hair England ground his teeth together. It seemed like he was to face another night of interrupted sleep. 

***

“Oh, it will be alright.” England patted Edward's shoulder as the carriage bumped along the dirt road. America had kept his promise and had sent them into the country to take a break from the overwhelming crowds. All of it had begun to affect the Prince, giving him unmanageable headaches. But Edward already looked better now in the light of midday than he had in the morning. “We will be spending a short time here. Taking a breather, as they say.”

“Thank goodness. Not that I don't appreciate it all. By golly, even the Canadians weren't as excited to see me as these Americans are. You would have thought the subjects were in the wrong place.” Edward leaned back against the carriage wall, a strange look crossing the young royal’s face as he looked at England.

“What? Is something the matter?”

“Is what my Mum said true? About you and Alfred I mean?”

“What did your mother say?” England asked cautiously. He didn’t like the look on Edward’s face. It nearly identical to that of Victoria’s when she chatted him up on her coronation day, or the times she made slight jabs at him in the years following. 

“That you two love each other.” Edward cut straight to the point. 

“Not the way your mother means!” England said hurriedly, staring pointedly out the window as the carriage bumped and jolted along.

“I think you do”

“And what would you know of such things-”

“I think you love him, Alfred, I mean, and you just don’t realize it or refuse to acknowledge it.” Edward continued on as if England hadn’t begun to protest, “I can tell that he loves you. Not a flirtatious infatuation, like you argued with my da’ about. But that he truly loves you. Like my mum and da’ love each other. I mean I can completely see why you would be cautious. In a way, you raised him as a younger brother, and many would point fingers at you with biblical accusations of incest, yet I don’t think that really applies here. I mean it’s not like you two have the same parents. He wasn’t a babe when you found him right? He was already grown some. The native people were here far longer before our people touched soil right? Just caused you raised him doesn't mean that you are related by blood. So that wipes out that excuse.” The prince raised his hand ticking off fingers. “No Incest, officially independent nation, the legal age to be wed by human standards, fought his own war… so on and so forth… I think that about covers it?” Edward grinned at him. 

“You-” England was floored. They had been sitting in the carriage, talking of nothing of importance and then out of the blue Edward comes with this outlandish idea and reasoning to back it up. He knew Alfred and his young prince had taken an immediate liking to each other and the American nation had taken it upon himself to entertain the boy when England needed to attend to other things, but England had not seen it coming. 

“And don’t even try to say that I don’t know what I am talking about. Or that I have nothing to base it off of.  I've watched my parents for years. They are smitten. Smitten with each other as Alfred is smitten with you. It's definitely more than just a fancy.” Edward’s expression was haughty. 

“Out of the mouths of babes.” England shook his head. There was no rhyme or reason to why Edward had brought this up. Unserious Edward of all people. 

“I am not the complete fool that my mum makes me out to be,” Edward said.  “I am not teasing you, Arthur. I really think that all the irritation at his presence you have been displaying is because you aren't completely truthful with how you feel about him as well.”

“This is improper. Let us speak of something else,” England whispered, the request masked as a command was barely heard over the noise of the carriage wheels. The back of his neck felt hot, and his chest and belly uneasy. What had happened to the pleasant carriage ride?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The royal visit was really fun to research and it sounds like it was a really crazy trip! And it's not over... in the next installment, America and England have to face the consequences of some of the things they've started and find out that old wounds still hurt.
> 
> If you have been enjoying our story please leave a kudo or a review! Thank you to everyone who commented on the last few chapters! We loved receiving your feedback!


	16. Sickled Feet

_October 5, 1860_

_Outside Washington D.C._

 

“What cities have we just traveled through, Arthur?” Edward’s muffled voice came out of the bundle of furs across from him in the carriage. England watched the crown prince with concern. The October air was a bit chilly, but the Prince had been cold all morning. England couldn’t discern if the young monarch was coming down with cold or was just tired. Either way, the normally exuberant prince had been snoring the entire way thus far to Richmond. He hoped that they would not be spending too much time there. Being in the South made England uneasy with the volatile behaviors of America’s people. Political tensions were running high and the Southern politicians that had been in attendance at the capitol had watched the royal party like a pack of wolves as they debated on how to gain publicity from it all. England sighed, America seemed a never ending supply of problems. “Arthur?” Edward asked, drawing England from his thoughts.

 

“Since we touched American soil?” England responded.

 

“No, since we returned from the lodge.”

 

“Ah, that would be St. Louis, which, if you recall, we were followed by that merchant advertising his blasted store, then Cincinnati, Pittsburgh and Harrisburg.”

 

“I’m glad to finally see the white house. And George Washington's home at Mount Vernon. I've read about them multiple times but never thought I’d get to see them. To think, that less than fifty years ago you nearly burned the whole capitol of this nation.”

 

“Ah... yes,” England said awkwardly, coughing into his fist. An uneasy silence stretched between the pair before England continued, “When we are done in Richmond, we’ll return to the capitol for a brief rest. Then, we will then take the rail to Baltimore, Philadelphia-”

 

“And then on to New York City!” The massive bundle of furs surged upwards as the prince straightened in excitement. Inquisitive eyes focused on England and the nation couldn’t help but smile and shake his head. The young prince was a philanderer, the whispers of the court not wrong. His mother hated it, but no one could claim that he wasn’t brilliant. Every city they had traveled to Edward had demanded the British history behind it. There had been a few times when England had been lost for words. America had progressed farther than he’d previously given him credit for doing. With his good relationship to knowledge and his jovial attitude he would make for a decent King someday.

 

“I know your tutors required you to read about this city. How about you tell me what you remember and I shall tell you if you are correct.” England smirked in challenge. It was a way to keep the prince busy.

 

“Well then, so the British took the city in 1664 and renamed it “New York” after taking it from the Dutch.” Edward began and that was the last thing England really heard. He watched as Edward proved his knowledge, but England’s mind was preoccupied with much more personal matters.

 

They had been back from the lodge for over a week. Had spent ample time in America’s capitol, yet America had not been present at all. And now they were headed to the South, and there was no reason that England could think America would be present. Maybe their last argument, if one could call it that, had chased the young blond off.

 

Unease churned England’s stomach. America’s absence coupled with Edward’s persistent prodding about non existent romantic notions surrounding the young nation had been driving England mad. There was nothing going on! England scowled angrily out the window. There was no way that he felt any such way, he was just randy, that was all. He resolved himself to send for a casual acquaintance when he returned to Europe, Germany would probably be willing, and at least that boy had the decency to realize his misplaced affection was precisely that.

 

***

 

_October 6, 1860_

_Richmond, Virginia_

 

“I really don't want to spend anymore time than necessary here,” England muttered, as Edward unearthed himself from the collection of furs.

 

“The South is supposed to be an interesting place though.”

 

“Yes, but right now with a civil war on the horizon. The politics down here are being pulled apart by grubby, greasy fingers and I fear that any intentions made to gain access to the royal party are going to be far less than genuine.”

 

“Oh, come off it, Arthur. Everyone here has been grand to us. It's been fantastic being in the States. I don't know why my mum was so particularly mortified at our trip extending here. My da was right, it's a good thing. Oh look!” Edward leaned out the window waving to a figure walking towards them. “It's Alfred!”

 

“What?” England nudged the boy back to peer out the window as the figure stopped outside their carriage. “Master... Jones...” England paused as he took in the sight of America. It was America..., but something was off. England blinked furiously against the afternoon sun. Maybe it was the lighting? It wasn't as if America had gotten as hair cut or changed his style of clothing... but something was different. “Nice of you to finally join us,” England said flatly.

 

“Welcome to Richmond!” America said, grabbing the handle of the carriage door and pulling it open. His accent stretched, the vowels wider and slower. He shook his head. “I mean, welcome to Richmond! Things are a little... well, Lord Lyons is worried about a scene so let’s get you settled.”

 

“You said that twice.” England commented. The change of accents did not surprise him in the least. If he himself wasn’t careful, he would find himself slipping an array of accents dependent upon where he was in his country. Grabbing the edges of the door, he stepped down out of the carriage, onto the dirt road. He turned to face America as Edward followed suit. “It's been a good while since you graced us with your presence.”

 

“I had some stuff to take care of... it’s settled now.” He grinned at him and ushered them up the stairs. “How did you like Washington? It’s changed a lot, huh?”

 

“Yes it’s not-” the sharp retort stopped there, England swallowing, as he thought better of his words. He had almost said burning. “Quite what it was. It has grown.” England nodded, keeping an eye on the prince and the guards that surrounded the royal.

 

America seemed pleased and ushered England up to the front of the hotel. The building was newer, the paint clearly fresh on the colonnades. The interior was carpeted and well lit, the change from the industrial northern states to the agrarian south was evident. Some of the other guests looked at them, curiosity in their gazes. The skirts on the women had certainly gotten wider, the men dressed more tidily and with a more old-fashioned style in the cut of their clothes. The western states had felt raw and frontier and now they had entered into the oldest state of the young nation. England couldn’t quite put his finger on what made the place feel so different. When was the last time he’d been in this part of the south? “I’m sure y’all are hungry, the cooks here are really good. The mayor wants to meet you, Edward, if you want.”

 

Damn that accent, America sounded like an almost completely different person and England couldn’t quite decide whether that was a good or bad thing. England swallowed before looking at Edward who nodded. “Yes, he shall.” England said quietly.

 

Edward and his entourage walked towards the humans that awaited them, leaving England and America near the doors that had been closed behind them. America caught his eye and tilted his head. “What?”

 

England flushed, embarrassed at being caught with such thoughts. It had nothing in particular to do with America, he assured himself. It had just been a while. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just listening to your change in accent.” There, that wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth. America didn’t have to know that hearing his voice had created increasingly indecent thoughts in England’s head.

 

“Yes, I guess it gets a little different down here. Do you remember Virginia much?”

 

“All too well. Though it looks nothing like it used to.” England admitted, gazing around. “But that is to be expected. It,” he cleared his throat, “It doesn't belong to me anymore.”

 

“I improved it, huh?” America said, a baiting tease in his smile. “We’ll have to make some new memories here to supplant the old ones. Virginians still know how to dance. There will be a little dancing after dinner.”

 

“Dancing?” England arched a brow. “I guess I'll need to get my suit looked at if I am too take places on lady’s dance cards.”

 

“Yeah, just call a servant. Your ambassador made sure they were suitable.” For a brief moment, America’s face changed and the cheerful look disappeared, a frown creasing his forehead for only a second. England couldn’t even be sure he’d seen it, since it was replaced by a smile and a question. “Do you need anything before dinner?”

 

“No, nothing you can provide.” England reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, peering at its face, America seemed rather on edge. “It's a quarter past noon if you were wondering the time. As you seem to be eager to evacuate the area,” he said lightly.

 

“There’s a bit of a problem. Don’t be alarmed about it.”

 

“You telling me not to be alarmed is what's making me alarmed.” England frowned. “What’s going on?”

 

Looking around for a moment, America took England by the elbow to move him a little farther from any potential eavesdroppers. “Some people feel, uh, inconvenienced by the prince’s visit. There’s concern they may make their displeasure known. Your ambassador seemed to think it best to distract the prince with entertainment until it can be dealt with.”

 

“Inconvenience!?” England stared at him flabbergasted. “Inconvenienced by a visit from a member of the world's most powerful monarchical family?” England's voice became sharp with offense. “What rubbish! Uncivilized!” England spat, feeling his temper rise. He had half a mind to let loose a lecture on the taller blonde.

 

“Don’t get indignant,” said America, frowning, “Their commerce was being interrupted and unless you wanted your royalty to be present at a slave auction...” America winced as if he had bit the inside of his cheek. “Look, I’ll take care of it and be back by supper... I haven’t meant to be gone so much of your visit.”

 

“If you haven’t meant to be gone so much then send someone else to take care of such a foul thing.” England’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

 

“You want me to delegate?”

 

“Yes. You said it yourself earlier that you wanted to spend more time with the prince and I yet at every turn you have found some excuse to shove us off on someone else.”

 

America looked away from him, jaw tight. He looked towards the front of the hotel. His skin was a little shiny from sweat and it couldn’t be due to the weather that had turned rather brisk. “I...” He winced again. “I’ll see if some of the officials can take care of it. Does the prince like cards?”

 

England eyed him carefully before saying carefully “I... the prince will be more than entertained with the mayor and no doubt the tour the mayor has cooked up. Edward loves being gawked at... you... I... I would prefer if you... showed me to my room and attended me... in private.”

 

America blinked, eyes widening slightly. Then he smiled. “I’d like that. Come on, I’ll show you your room.” He tilted his head in the direction of the stairs, pausing for a moment with the hotel keeper to get the key. He met England at the bottom of the stairs and together they walked up to the second floor. The room was on the end of one wing, the white-washed door leading into a parlor with a fire banked in the fireplace. The furnishings were plush. “What do you think?”

 

“Charming.” England nodded, placing his hat on the hat rack near the door, his coat following suit as he looked around. Dark accents and rich colors made the room warm and close. Running his hands through his hair his eyes slid over the matching drapery and the carpets laid out to restrict the chill wood flooring often held onto during the fall and winter months. Hands settling on his hips he leaned back ever so slightly, back cracking. Hours upon hours of carriage travel over the last three months were murder on anyone's back. “Edward should find it to his liking.” He peered at the doors, establishing that there were separate rooms. England felt a sense of relief. That meant he wouldn’t have to listen to whatever woman Edward brought home with him that evening if the rumors of a dance were actually true.

 

America dropped down onto the sitting couch near the fire and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes. “I thought you would like this one. The craftsman who made the furniture studied in Europe, but then put his own personality into it. I like them.” He turned his head to glance in England’s direction. “What did you want to do until supper?”

 

“Not be gawked at by your citizens.” England sighed, settling onto the couch with much more control than America had. He slumped back against the cushions with a sigh of relief.

 

“Can you blame them?”

 

“No. But that doesn't mean that I have to enjoy it,” he grouched, eyes sliding such as he sank further into the cushions. “Tedious really.”

 

“What would make it less tedious?”

 

“The situation itself is. There isn’t really anything that can be done to make it less so. Just have to ride it out I suppose.” He shrugged. “Probably should find a way to rid myself of some of the stress though, or I may strangle poor Edward.” He chuckled.

 

“He might have his hands full with the girls in these parts.” America yawned, stretching his arms over his head and then settling them on the back of the couch. His hand fell near England’s hair and the movement ruffled the back of his neck. “At least I didn’t ask you to gussy up, you do that all on your own. If your intention is not to be gawked at limits our options a little, we could play a game, read, take a nap... something else.” He shrugged.

 

“Uh huh.” England cracked open an eye to look at his companion before closing it again. “You look ready to fall asleep.”

 

“I did say take a nap.” Leaning over, America rested his head on England’s shoulder, sighing as he relaxed.

 

England tensed, Edward's comments plaguing his mind. No, there was no reason to act so odd. Swallowing he forced himself to relax, telling himself that a nap was the right thing to do so that he would be completely aware and able to keep an eye on Edward for what was sure to be a long night.

 

***

 

The sun had dipped down into late afternoon light, the clock on the mantle ticking to 4:30 pm. America stared at the window, he was in the hotel. He shifted, realizing that there was someone warm underneath him. Fear gripped him, who? He shifted, picking up on his elbows to look up. He breathed out in relief. It was just England. Now that his mind was awake he could remember how he got here. They had fallen asleep upright and about a half hour later, England had told him to move so they could stretch out. America lay his head back down on England’s chest, listening to his breath. The voice was being quiet.

 

Rubbing at his eyes England yawned himself into consciousness. He was warm and as his mind woke up he recognized the weight on top of him. He knew he should rectify the situation,but in the warm lazy comfort he found himself hard pressed to do so. Maybe America would take care of it? That possibility was dashed as he felt a rush of cold air on his torso as the boy got up and then warmth again when he laid back down. Between the fire and their combined body heat England found himself quite warm on an October afternoon. Releasing a quiet sigh his fingers found their way from his temple and down into America's hair. A brief thought crossed his mind at how soft it was as he ran his fingers through it in a non committed set of patterns. His long fingers slid from temple to jaw line and back again, one hand settling at the nape of the neck.

 

A contented sound slipped between America’s lips. “Can we just stay here?”

 

“You know better.” England sighed, shoving down his uncertainty about the situation in favor of the peace.

 

“I’ll just pretend then.” He shifted, wrapping his arms around England’s middle. He pressed his face into England’s clothes.

 

England's hands paused in their ministrations and his cleared his throat once again “N-not so tight Alfred,” he said quickly. It was a valid excuse as the younger pressed tightly against him.

 

America loosened his grip, shifting them both so England became effectively trapped between the back of the couch and America’s body. The change brought the top of America’s head beneath his chin.

 

“Just cause I said not tightly doesn't mean that I wanted to be suffocated.” he muttered half heartedly.

 

“Hmmm,” mumbled America, giving England a little more room to breathe, but not so far, the couch far too narrow for them to be completely side by side. England rolled his eyes but relented nonetheless, focusing on the dying fire in the fireplace across from them. They would need to feed it soon.

 

“I should probably get up and add another log.” It wasn't as bad as a castle, but buildings could become very cold surprisingly fast.

 

“Nah, we’ll have to get up soon anyway to dress for the party.” America sighed, he took one of England’s hand and threaded their fingers together. He looked at their entwined fingers as though it had been subconscious, beyond his control.

 

“You really are an ass.” England muttered, looking at the ceiling stubbornly. The boy kept fucking with him.

 

America looked up at him. “What?”

 

Refusing to look at him England shook his head. “Just forget it.”

 

With a sigh, America let go of his hand and pushed himself up from his position. Sitting, he twisted so that he could look at England’s face. “I told you before, I’m not playing.”

 

“I didn't say you were.” he said quietly. Edward’s and France’s words banged around in his head. “Just don't start something you aren't going to finish.”

 

America watched his face, thoughts flitting across his own. “Arthur, I...” The door banged open revealing Edward and his entourage.

 

“Arthur, there’s going to be dancing! You better get yourself ready— oh, my apologies, did I interrupt something?”

 

“Nope,” America said, getting to his feet. “Just taking a rest is all. I’ll see you at dinner.”

 

***

 

England frowned all throughout the meal. America had lied again. Why did he insist on making statements at all if he did not intend to follow through on them? He was missing, although a place had been set for him on the other side of a bonnie young woman who was doing her best to engage England in conversation. He did his best to keep the talk small and simple, unwilling to get into too much more when he found his mind wandering to where America had gone. The boy had been a literal weight on his chest that very afternoon. Now the weight was far more figurative. If Edward hadn’t walked in, what would America have said? The Prince had been more than entertained, wheedling about it all through dressing for dinner and implying all sorts of things he’d expected to walk in on when he’d heard they’d gone up to the rooms alone.

 

After the meal was finally cleared and the groups dispersed, England sought out one of the American representatives. “May I ask after the whereabouts of Mister Alfred Jones?”

 

The man fidgeted. “He’s gone out, sir, I’m afraid I can’t say much more than that.”

 

“Gone out.”

 

“That’s right.” England frowned and walked away. Leave it to a politician to say one thing and mean something entirely different. They were hiding something from him. What had America meant when he said he was taking care of “stuff”? A little twinge of worry crept into his gut. He could remember how ill he’d felt before a war, and he was centuries older than America at the time, despite that he’d been much smaller. He wasn’t able to brood over much on his thoughts as he was drawn into Edward’s small group of admiring young people. “Baron Renfrew” as they were calling him to avoid the trappings of an actual official visit was the life of the party once again.

 

It was late when everyone retired, but England found that he couldn’t sleep. He turned up the gas lamp and struck a spark, illuminating the plush and well decorated room. He considered reading for a moment, then reached for his letterbook thinking that he could review some correspondence. No, none of it could keep his mind occupied. Perhaps a walk would be in order.

 

He’d been informed earlier that the angry crowd had dispersed, but he would have a pistol just in case anyone got any ideas. He dressed quickly and then walked through the parlor room. He could hear muffled sounds from Edward’s room and sighed. It seemed a suitable companion was going to be hard to come by on this particular trip. Opening the door into the hallway, he took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was the wee hours of the morning and only a few lamps remained lit for the night servants. He walked along the floor and decided he would take the back stair.

 

He froze, eye catching a strange shape in the darkness. It was laying on the floor, a bulk of humanity in a pile. A drunk man perhaps? He dismissed that thought immediately. This may be America, but his high class establishments did present themselves well. What then? And how had a servant not already swept the individual out of sight?

 

Stepping forward, England leaned down to try and get a better look. His heart pounded when he realized he recognized the shape of the head, that infuriating curl that would never lie flat. “Alfred!” he gasped, shaking him lightly on the shoulder. America didn’t move. Moving carefully, England checked his pockets for a key. He had to get him out of the hallway, and taking him to be gawked at by the Crown Prince did not sound like an ideal situation at all. England tried to get an arm around him and struggled to drag him to his room. It felt like it took an age, but he soon got America onto the bed and lit the lamps.

 

He looked dreadful in the lamp light. “Where the bloody hell have you been?” England grumbled, taking in the mud on America’s clothes and the dried blood that encrusted his upper lip from a bloody nose. He walked to the wash basin to get a cloth.

 

“What happened? Where am I?” America mumbled, words slurring as England daubed at his face.

 

“You were sprawled across the hall like some belligerent,” England muttered, fear now coupled with anger.

 

“We were in your parlor... what time is it?” America blinked, confusion crossing his face. He rubbed at his nose and it began to bleed again. He sat up, trying to staunch it with his sleeve. “Ouch... I feel like I was bucked off a particularly ornery horse.”

 

“Did you really drink that much? Skip supper to over indulge in spirits. It's morning by now. Very wee hours….. Or did you go and deal with that slave auction despite saying you'd delegate?”

 

“Am I drunk?” America wobbled slightly and England caught him by the shoulders. “I don’t remember.”

 

“I don’t know, are you?” England snapped, grabbing the rag and clasping it over America's nose. “If you can’t even remember and have a splitting headache you either lost a fight or got sloshed.” Despite the annoyance that he felt, England could smell that America hadn’t been in a bottle at all. There wasn’t a hint of anything, just the soil on his clothes and maybe a hint of tobacco smoke.

 

“You make a terrible nurse,” said America, wincing as England squeezed harder. “I stepped outside for a moment for some air and that’s the last thing I remember.” His brow furrowed. “Maybe I did go deal with it... did they leave?”

 

“I don’t know,” England said flatly. “I was too busy looking around for my host who has been disappearing the entire time I've been in his country and right after saying that he would fucking stay fucking disappeared again. If you don’t want to see me then just say so and then leave. Don’t bother popping in and out with lies.” First, England had been angry, now he just felt hurt. The boy kept saying that he wasn’t playing with him, that he was sincere. But what was England supposed to think when America’s actions strongly contradicted his words? And now he was acting in this frightening way. Why was it always like this!?

 

“I... didn’t... mean to leave.” His words came out slow on his tongue. “I was going to come to dinner. My suit was laid out.” He glanced around, raising his hand to point. “It’s there, see?”

 

England grunted in response. He was about at his wits end with the situation. “Just get in bed. I'll stay to make sure you don’t asphyxiate when you vomit.”

 

“Arthur, I’m not drunk. I swear it.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I did go outside... I was going to check on the situation, to see how it was being handled. That’s honestly the last thing I remember. I was going to check and come to dinner. Why else would I have my suit laid out? If I was planning on lying to you do you think I would have gone to this much effort? Please, believe me. This... this isn’t the first time it’s happened. I didn’t want to tell you, I thought I could control it.”

 

England listened silently, remaining silent a few more moments after America finished. “The blackouts, the ones you told me about awhile back, and I told you that it was a sign of a coming civil war. You said I was wrong...” He paused “Do you believe me now?”

 

America reached for him, hooking his fingers in his sleeve. “I’m not in a civil war... right now. I... I’m afraid that it hinges on my next president. There’s a lot of talk about the man from Illinois and what will happen if...” He grit his teeth as another wave of pain crossed his face. “Did this happen to you?”

 

“I collapsed a few times. But I dropped where I was... and then... I had fits. I once got in an argument with my reflection. I would start shouting... conflicting sentences one after another. Like I was arguing with someone and speaking for both of us. Sometimes more than one... depending on which war it was. Francis, Antonio, Vicente, Feliciano... it was all very much the same. But we all knew it was happening. So forgive me if I am having trouble believing you that you don’t recall what happened.”

 

“Arthur, please.” Voice cracking, America dropped his chin to his chest. He took a shaky breath. “I’ve never meant to hurt you.”

 

“That-” England’s lips pursed, “is not an argument that you want to have with me right now. For trust me it will get ugly very quickly.” He shook his head. “I'll concede to the possibility. Go, bed.”

 

Watching him like a wounded animal, America settled back down onto the bed, struggling with his shoes and flinching when England tried to help him. He pulled the blankets up over his head and curled up into a ball beneath them. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” came his words in those frustratingly endearing Virginian tones.

 

England had been more than ready to get to his feet, bid the other a good night and head back to his room, exhaustion now settling over him like the blankets America had just pulled over himself. Now he was having trouble catching his breath. That phrase. That single phrase was something he had never heard out of America’s mouth. And while he knew it was not for the reason that he so desperately wanted to hear from America, and one he knew he would never hear, it still hit him like a ton of bricks. Clutching the bedpost England stared at lump in the bed, a small scratchy sound from his throat the only thing he could muster.

 

“Stay.” America’s voice sounded just as rough. As if he were fighting back other things tumbling out of his mouth. “I... don’t want to be alone.”

 

That wasn’t fair. America wasn’t being fair. None of this was fair. The world must really hate him, England bitterly considered. Thoughts tumbled around inside his mind and before he knew it, his shoes were untied, his jacket draped over the bedpost and he was yanking back the blankets to slid underneath. “Just because it's cold.” England justified his actions with a grumble as he found himself cocooned beneath wool, face to face with America. Embarrassed by the expression that was more than likely covering his face, he staunchly focused on the buttons of America’s shirt.

 

America unfolded a little, his glasses slightly askew on his face. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Is it too much to ask to hold you?”

 

“Yes. Yes, it is too much to ask, but that's just you isn't it,” England groused “But you’re sick... so I'll allow it this time.”

 

Without another word, America reached forward, drawing England across the mattress and into his arms. Pulling off his glasses and pushing them somewhere near the head of the bed and pressed his face into the crook of England’s neck.

 

“What did I say about being manhandled?” England muttered with no venom. His arms automatically closed around his bed partner, as he was cocooned in warmth once more. This time he did not find sleep elusive.

 

***

 

America woke up with the smell of male sweat in his nose. It was warm wherever he was and when he opened his eyes he was staring at someone’s shirt collar. Whoever it was had their back pressed up against him. _**Where have you taken me?!**_ _I am loathe to share him with you..._

 

Shifting slightly, America realized he knew that blond hair and he knew this smell. He adjusted his hold and felt warmth spread through his chest. He’d been feeling hollow, cold, as everyone fought and argued and looked for wounds that could be exploited. He remembered now, he’d tried to come to England last night. Then England had found him... and not believed a word he said. What had he said!? England stirred in his arms and America was afraid to move. He didn’t want England to draw away.

 

Stretching, England sighed as America stiffened. Shifting around to face him, England yawned. He could tell he was being watched, England was waiting. Pressing his face into the pillow, America groaned. What could he say, though? He’d been of two minds last night, that was for sure. He couldn’t even recall half the words that had come out of his mouth, only the effect they had on England. He tightened his fingers in the back of England’s shirt. “I’m glad you stayed with me.” That was something that he could say with total honesty.

 

“You were sick and asked.” England sighed. “I'm not that much of an arsehole.”

 

America chuckled. “You know that’s not the world’s consensus.” England glared at him. “I know you better though.”

 

“That's what you like to think.”

 

“It’s what I know.” Sliding his arm so that he could take hold of England’s hand and kept it pressed between them. “I was a real mess last night, wasn’t I?”

 

“Yes, embarrassingly so.” He glanced down at his hand that was being gripped, brow raising when he looked back at America.

 

America blushed, loosening his grip so that England could take it back if he wanted. “If you need to leave I understand... if not, will you stay here with me? I’m so tired...”

 

“I can stay... I highly doubt Edward's awake... he was, well, shall we say, preoccupied last night.”

 

“I’ll bet,” America mumbled into his pillow. He shifted, laying on his stomach. “He sure is energetic.”

 

As America pulled away England smothered a frown, rolling on his back. “He's young. I envy him sometimes.”

 

Turning his head, a playful smile tugged at America’s lips. “Old man.”

 

“Fuck off, Alfred,” he spat.

 

Smile turning mischievous, America rolled onto his side. “Make me.”

 

“I'm not gonna fall for your pathetic bait, boy.”

 

Rolling his eyes, America flopped onto his back and stretched his arms above his head. He yawned and let his eyes drift shut. “Too early for you, huh?”

 

“Early? What do you mean?”

 

“I just assumed you were tired too.”

 

“No, I’m not tired.” He rolled over, turning his back to America. “I am just not playing your game.”

 

Rolling over, America pressed up against England’s back. “It’s not a game.”

 

“You're certainly have me fooled then” he muttered, pressing his cheek into his pillow, fingers digging into his temple.

 

“Arthur.” America nudged him until England could look him in the face. “I’m not playing.” England’s expression was guarded, furrowed brows. Whatever had happened last night had upset him, but he’d stayed. That had to mean something. Before England could respond he pressed forward, catching his mouth with his own.

 

***

 

Confusion. That was the number one emotion that England found himself immersed in as of late. He really could not figure out the young blond. Decorum would dictate offense. That he should push America away and storm from the room in a huff. But there was no anger, no insult. It just, as stupid and storybook as it sounded, was. Allowing his eyes to slide shut once more England relented, giving way to the younger. It wasn’t like the opium room, or the San Juan islands. There was no need to prove their correct opinions, to be the leading man. It was comfortable. Sticky sweet almost. The kiss was lazy, happening in its own little space of time. Not that time was linear, no it was a more, as England had learned over his many years alive, wibbly-wobbly. Nonsense like timey-wimey or whatever the man had informed him.

 

Lips parting England allowed himself to be swept away in the amenity of it all. Tongues dipping lazily back and forth into each other's mouth as America pulled him closer. America was tall, his frame now larger than his own and it was almost, protective. Between America and their nest of tousled blankets England felt, for lack of a better word, safe. A feeling that he often could not say he was comfortable with.

 

***

 

America wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting when he’d kissed England. He hadn’t really thought the whole thing through at all. All he’d known was that he wanted England to know that he wasn’t trying to tease him. Who knew what people had said over the years since that first drug-addled kiss to the moment in the rain years later and then that unfortunate scene over the incident with the pig. He could almost forgive the voice in his head for interrupting that one. _Thank you._ _ **I’m busy, go away.**_ _Oh now,_ we’re _busy at the moment._ _ **You can’t have him.**_ _Quiet._

 

For a moment, America lost the rhythm of the kiss and bumped his nose against England’s. “Whoops.” Brushing his fingers against the back of England’s neck to hold him still he took another risk and kissed the end of his nose. It was England’s turn to pause. America didn’t want to give him a chance to hesitate for too long and drew him back into the kiss.

 

***

 

Before England could even mutter ‘idiot’ he found himself enraptured once again by something so simple yet so complex. In the scheme of things a kiss didn’t really mean much, but in some circumstances it was everything. Almost like it was bigger on the inside. Calloused fingers against smooth skin, chilled with the morning air, now slowing warming up. Hot breath filling a tactile cavern. Turning his head to take a breath of the stuffy air, a small noise of approval rumbled indolently from his throat as chapped lips slid across the skin of his neck, keeping preoccupied as he breathed. It was nearly nauseating how sweet the American was being, a free hand rubbing in the small of his back elicited another noise of approval as his lumbar began to loosen beneath the ministrations.

 

***

 

America liked the feel of England’s hands on his arms, his back, his chest. When they moved, they moved with purpose. He also liked the way England moved when he pressed his fingers against the small of his back. A cheerful sound bubbled up from his throat. He may be aching from whatever misadventure he’d been through last night, but England’s touch made him forget.

 

***

 

England swallowed a yawn as sleepiness crept up on him once again. The travel was exhausting, and although his pains were not as obvious as America he was also suffering from strain. He was in the middle of the second opium war, and just because he wasn’t on the battlefront with France, the attacks on the opium dens of London and his troops out fighting the Chinese was enough to sometimes make him sick. It was a good thing he had a strong constitution. America’s open mouthed kisses pulled his attention back to the present and he all but glued himself to the other, chest to chest, hip to hip. Allowing his hands to settle on America's forearm he innocently draped a leg over America’s hip, murmuring as America practically encased him with his arms. He could spend the entire day like this.

 

***

 

It was like a tonic, the affection, after being alone for so long. Even the voice decided he was content to just let it happen. _He doesn’t need to know that there are three of us here._ _ **It’s only him and me.**_ _Us._ America couldn’t even be bothered to worry. The pain of the last year’s events and those that had been piling on and on for years were numbed. He didn’t stop until sleep dragged him down, the sudden comfort giving him the rest he desperately needed.

 

***

 

_October 11, 1860_

_New York City , New York_

 

“Arthur! It’s so loud! So many people!” Edward shouted. They were sitting in the same carriage with Mayor Fernando Wood, while other dignitaries and the 12th regiment band of the state militia following behind, creating a ruckus so loud one couldn’t hear themselves think.

 

“And here we go down Broadway!” the mayor shouted, fingers in his ears. The street was not visible with all the bodies crammed along its edges and pressing up against the procession through the city. Just like every other place that they had visited in the United States, everything looked so different. Nothing like it had when he had owned it, or even at the time of America’s betrayal. That was so long ago, in human years at least.

 

“We are going to be so busy!” Edward shouted excitedly.

 

***

 

_October 15_

_New York_

 

“Six thousand people Arthur!” Edward screeched. They had been dragged out of the bed that morning and escorted down the streets and to Madison square, onto a viewing stand and now they were witness a massive parade that had been created and organized by the local fireman.

 

“It really is impressive.” England smiled, watching as the prince practically vibrated with excitement. Glancing around England sighed when he noticed that America still had not shown up. He hadn’t seen America since that morning in Richmond.

  
“This is for me, this is all for me!” Edward shouted suddenly, shooting his fists into the air. England covered his face with his hands, as if he could hide from his embarrassment.

  
“And we still have the ball later.” England groaned. Edward looked at him with an elated expression.

 

***

 

America adjusted the fit of his suit jacket on his shoulders in the mirror. There was still the shadow of a bruise on his right cheek, but not noticeable enough to scandalize polite society. His clothes were of the newest fashion, bright colors and patterns created by weaving and sewing machines.

 

He couldn’t help but be excited. They were in the grandest, most modern hotel in New York, the Fifth Avenue. He’d amused himself briefly with the indoor plumbing before realizing he would be late if he didn’t hurry up. Running his hands through his hair one more time to get a properly jaunty look, he stepped away from the mirror. Grabbing his top hat, he hurried down to the lobby to meet the others. Standing beneath the tall ceiling he checked his pocket watch, any moment now.

 

***

 

“Edward, you-”

 

“Don’t want me to bring any ladies back?” Edward sighed and England rolled his eyes.

 

“I know better than to hope for that, you would just whine at me all night. I’ve already planned to stay in different quarters.” England huffed, straightening the prince’s bow tie, smoothing down the front of his black suit and straightening a stray hair.

 

“Are you quite done fussing?”

 

“Hush. You are a delegate and a prince here.” England scowled, and whirled him around. “All right. We have a ball hosted at the Academy of Music.”  
  


“With a guest list of three thousand people.” Edward laughed as they headed down the stairs and towards the carriage. The ride through the New York streets was busy and loud until they arrived at the large opera hall. A temporary dance floor had been constructed for the ball. England was positive the minute any of the counsel had found out that Edward loved to dance they had planned this. “Isn't Alfred supposed to be our host? Isn't he supposed to be entering with us?”

 

“Yes, but... you know how away he has been this trip.” England sighed as they headed into the building.

 

***

 

The announcement of the prince’s presence came with a thunderous cheer of the entire gathering of New Yorkers showed off their finest. There had only been so many invitations that had gone out, but thousands more had shown up, America hadn’t been able to keep count of them all. The room was a crush of bodies and the dancing hadn’t even begun. America stood at the front of them. Moving forward towards them and offering a hand to Edward.

 

“Whaddya think of New York?” Edward grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder before moving off into the sea of guests, leaving England by America’s side.

 

“It's... certainly grown... nice to see you again.”

 

America grinned, feeling that the days he couldn’t quite remember didn’t matter. “Fancy, huh? At least this part of town, it gets a little rougher once you get into the boroughs, lots of gangs you know. Anyway, are you ready to have some fun?”

 

“Well,” England eyed the large crowd “I suppose so.”

 

Catching England’s sleeve, he tugged him slightly forward, walking towards the edge of the dance floor. “Come with me.”

 

“Where are we going?” England frowned “We are leaving? But the ball?”

 

“We’re not going far.” His hand brushed England’s as he released him and led him into the hallway off the main room.

 

“I know skipping things may be your thing, but-” England fell silent with a scowl as America frowned at him.

 

The barb had hurt, but it didn’t stop him. They walked through the hallway of the theater and up a stair. At the end of the hallway, America pulled aside a curtain and ushered England inside. It was a large theater box, the noise and boisterousness of the crowd below them. “I thought you’d want a better view and a place where you wouldn’t have to be the center of attention.”

 

“Alfred...” England leaned over the edge, searching for Edward. Tension left his shoulders as he realized that everything America said was true.

 

Pulling up a chair, America rested his chin on his folded arms on the rail. “It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it?” The instruments were beginning to start up, young men lining up to vie for places on young ladies’ dance cards.

 

“We are going to miss dancing? You like dancing.” He looked at America “We shouldn’t be up here.”

 

Tilting his head and smiling, “I can’t very well dance with you down there. We haven’t danced since you taught me how. If we move the chairs, there’s space at the back of the box.”

 

“Dance... here? With me?” England straightened, staring America in disbelief as the younger got up started clearing a space.

 

Pausing, America turned to look at him. “Why not?”

 

“It’s... it’s...” He swallowed unable to summon a solid response.

 

Finishing with the chairs, America stepped forward, extending his hand. “Can I have this dance or do I need to sign your dance card?”

 

“I really should make you sign it. It's how things are done” England looked out over the crowd as the musicians stopped playing, instruments being adjusted before starting again. “Now this is a song I haven’t heard in forever.” He looked back at America and hesitated for a brief moment. Reaching out he placed his hand in America’s.

 

They went into the practiced steps, America silently counting in his head. His heart was thundering against his ribs, he’d been waiting to ask for so long.

 

“You look near in pain.” England commented with a frown. “Maybe this isn't a good idea. Maybe you should sit down.”

 

“Nah, dance with me.” He smiled at him, hoping that the good feelings that they’d rekindled in Richmond would be able to carry them through.

 

“I will be so cross with you if you pass out,” England complained. He followed after the other, allowing America to lead. “A little close for this dance don't you think?” he questioned as the pressure from America's hand in his lower back prompted him to move closer. He did anyways.

 

“It’s the new fashion.” They followed the steps, until the song came to its conclusion. Applause sounded below. “See, everything was just fine,” whispered America next to England’s ear. The instruments shifted to a faster tune.

 

Turning his face before America could pull away England brushed his mouth against America's “Prat.” he switched their hands, spinning America around as the steps called for it.

 

Laughing, America followed and threw himself into the dance. “I didn’t even think you knew this one.”

 

“You do realize most of the stuff here came from some nation in Europe.” England arched a brow.

 

“Sure, but I made it better.”

 

England glared at him. “So full of yourself.”

 

America shrugged. The last step of the dance brought him close. America leaned forward for just a moment and pressed a kiss on England’s mouth. “Another dance or do you have to go dance with someone else for appearance’s sake?”

 

“No one even knows we are up here,” England muttered as a gloved hand lifted to thread America's hair pulling him down close, but not kissing him. “There are so many dances, but it's up to the musicians.”

 

“Or up to us.” America leaned forward and kissed him again, wrapping his arms around his waist.

 

***

 

England didn't even get a chance to make a witty response before America silenced him. The boy was learning. _It's all I need. I'll get over my wonderings, take care of my needs and he will get over his youthful infatuation._ Gloved fingers traveled over broad shoulders, down his back and settled on America's backside as he kissed the boy hard.

 

America shuddered against England, his body pressing forward, heat sparking over skin beneath the layers between them. He took a deep breath as England’s lips moved over his neck, pulling aside the collar to reach his skin. He let his own hands drift over England’s back. He brushed his lips over the curve of England’s ear. “Take me to bed with you tonight.”

 

England froze in disbelief. Sure, he had been waiting for this. To get it done with, the tightness in his suit pants was no illusion. That had been the goal but it still shocked him, even fifty years ago it would have been unimaginable. He leaned back to look at America. “A-are you serious?”

 

“Yes, I want you to, well...” He blushed and tried to cover up his nerves with another kiss.

 

England allowed himself to distracted for a moment before sinking his teeth gently into America's bottom lip. “You know what you’re asking?”

 

“Yes,” he said.

 

England searched his face. Was this really the best time? Would America remember this with his blackouts? “...All right.”

 

***

 

Kissing him again, America felt like his heart had flown out of his chest it was beating so hard. He drew back slowly. “I can call for a carriage.”

 

“We are leaving already? Eager?” said England, a teasing tone entering his voice.

 

“If you think that we can make it through a quadrille, I’m game.” He slid his hands down England’s arms and took his hands in his own.

 

“Do you do doubt me?” England arched a brow as he sensed a challenge.

 

America pulled them around and took him back to their makeshift dance floor. The music that was playing was one of the newer adaptations where partners could hold each other far more closely than would have even been considered proper a decade before. Taking the first step he waited for England to follow.

 

England grinned stepping forward briskly in challenge. Keeping his steps quick he forced America to keep to his pace, unmatched to the beat of the instruments.

 

America kept up as best as he could, not paying attention to his surroundings while he was preoccupied with the response his body was having. He caught his foot on one of the chairs and stumbled, falling into one of the other ones. Gripping the seat of the chair, he gave England a silly grin.

 

“Not very light on your feet it seems?” England arched a brow “Maybe I should have spent more time teaching you how to dance. How else will you sweep some fair maiden off her feet?”

 

“You could help me up, being a gentleman and all that.” He offered a hand and England took it, but instead of letting him pull him up, America drew him closer. “And whoever said I wanted to sweep a maiden off her feet?”

 

“What else could any healthy young male want?” he hummed.

 

“What do you think?” Grinning at him, America hooked his fingers into the lapels of England’s suit jacket. He leaned up, trying to catch England’s lips with a kiss.

 

Turning his cheek England rolled his eyes. “I was not speaking of your attention towards rich foods.”

 

“What are you trying to say?” He caught England around the middle with his arms and put his nose against his starched collar.

 

“Nothing, nothing.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I thought we were dancing?”

 

America pushed himself up from the chair, the arm around England’s waist momentarily picking him up off the floor. “Let’s dance then. It sounds like a waltz this time.”

 

England grabbed America's shoulders in surprise “Honestly!” he flushed.

 

“I won’t drop you,” he said, putting England on his feet. “Show me the dance, your version.”

 

“You mean the correct way?” England gave him a look before placing a hand in the small of America's back. “Hand on my shoulder, then.”

 

America followed his instructions, trying to stay focused on the dance. He could feel something poking at the back of mind again, the feeling that meant he might suddenly find himself somewhere he didn’t expect. _**Wait.**_ No answer. That was a good sign. He liked the feel of England’s hand at the small of his back, as soon as this party was over, as soon as they went back... he’d know what it was like to have England touch him. His hand on England’s shoulder slid over, gently touching the warm skin of England’s neck above the collar of his shirt.

 

Eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before looking up at America. “Could you be more transparent?” he murmured.

 

“Hmmm?” America stepped closer, far closer than the dance dictated. “I did offer to get the carriage, but I guess it would look kinda suspicious if we left so early, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Very rude as well.” England nodded, spinning the American around. “Your wooing skills need work.”

 

America almost blurted out about how England didn’t seem all that worried about being wooed in the San Juans, but maybe the was a battlefield thing. He didn’t want England to think he didn’t know what he was doing, even if it was the truth. “What do you like then, for wooing that is?”

 

“Me?” he asked “Why does it matter what I like?”

 

“What do you mean? I want to woo you.”

 

England's steps faltered. “I already agreed to your bed.”

 

“We’re not there right now... has no one tried to woo you before?”

 

England snorted. “You don't woo the British Empire. Nearly everyone is enamored by my mere presence, that typically tends to take care of everything.”

 

“Well, I’m not ‘everyone,’ tell me what you’d like.”

 

“For you to stop talking of this.” A flush crept up England’s neck.

 

America let out a sigh. “Fine, I’ll just surprise you then.” The dance came to a stop and America could still see the flush on England’s face. Why was he so embarrassed? He slid his fingers across England’s cheek. “Well, since we can’t leave... I think you should woo me more. I’d like a kiss, since you didn’t give me one before.”

 

“Excuse me!?” England gaped up at the younger before sputtering, “Who ever said I was trying to woo you!”

 

America blinked, taken aback. “Why not?”

 

“Why not? Why would I? We decided to be friends did we not? Friends don't woo each other,” he said carefully. England’s eyes searched America’s face.

 

“Because...” America bit his lip. The sound of wood splitting followed by shrieks and gasps, cut off his reply. Releasing England, he hurried over to the balcony and then back towards the stairs. “It’s okay, I’ll take care of it.”

 

“Take care of what?!” England gripped the edge of the balcony as he peered over the side and his stomach dropped. Just like the dance floor.

 

America caught him by the time England got down the stairs. “Seems like the dancing was too much for the floor, but no one is hurt. Just a bit of a surprise. It’s already being fixed... Prince Edward said he wanted to talk to you.”

 

“What was I thinking hiding up there!? I should have never left the prince's side!” England shook his head in a panic, staring at America as the boy stopped him from rushing into the crowd.

 

“He’s fine, he’s right there, see?” America pointed, directing England toward the Prince who was waving at them from the edge of the room.

 

“That's not the point, Alfred! He could have been hurt while I was up there... doing...” He swallowed shaking his head.

 

England pulled away and America let him go. He leaned against the wall, looking down at his shoes. He glanced at England checking on the Prince. It was just an accident! He shoved his hands in his pockets. Why couldn’t anything ever go right!?

 

***

 

“Edward!” Sliding through the crowd towards his crown prince relief only became available to England once he reached the boys side and was able to assess him.

 

“Arthur, I am quite alright. Surprised, but nonetheless alright.” Edward grinned. “It seems enough people snuck in that we broke the floors limit.” He chuckled as he ignored England's scowl. The pair turned as dancers crowded off the side, servants rushing in to fix the temporary floor.

 

“I take it I shall have the rooms to myself and whatever guest I have?” Edward smiled, earning a sharp glance from his guardian.

 

“Whatever gave you such an idea?”

 

“The fact that you and Alfred disappeared practically upon arrival and he awaits you in a forlorn matter by the stairs.” He gestured towards the impatient looking blond across the way. England turned back to Edward with a glare and the two Englishmen stared at each other. England sighed. “Fine.” He rubbed at his temple as Edward winked at the American nation over England's shoulders.

 

“I take it he’s all right, then?” America asked, when England returned, an agitated expression on his face.

 

“He's more than alright. In fact, he is amused by the whole situation.”

 

America chuckled. “Sounds like him, are you surprised?”

 

“No.” England eyed him. “but I hope the shoddy strength of your dance floor isn't comparable to yours or I fear my life”

 

“You think I’m gonna break?”

 

“No...” England looked back towards the crowd uncomfortably, before admitting quietly “You'll let me fall.”

 

Pulling England out of the line of sight so that he could cup his cheek. “It was just an accident. Those happen sometimes. You can trust me.”

 

England’s expression hardened slightly. “I did once.”

 

“Arthur... I won’t apologize for saving myself.” America’s hand dropped away. “I can leave you to enjoy the party if that’s what you want. I guess a floor breaking does kind of make a mess of the whole wooing process.”

 

“I didn't ask for an apology.” England bristled. “You were asking after how I felt and I told you. Which is being proven time and time again in my life something one should not do.”

 

“Did you ever stop to think I might be sensitive about it too?” America sighed. “Thank you for telling me how you feel. I will endeavor to earn back your trust.” His hand found England’s and squeezed his fingers gently.

 

England stepped away. “Don't patronize me.”

 

“That’s not what I meant... I was being honest. I want to be someone who you can trust... I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but...” America stuffed his hands in his pocket. “So much for tonight, huh? Everyone else is feeling goodwill for our friendship and here we are being the opposite. It’s kind of funny.”

 

“I can't say I share the same sentiment. It being amusing and all.”

 

“I didn’t mean amusing... I meant more strange. Too bad we can’t just go back to where we were less than a half hour ago.”

 

England gave him a deadpanned look. “You do know that this is when all the wooing you were talking about is supposed to come in. You were very intent upon practicing.”

 

“And you wouldn’t tell me what you liked!” America laughed and shook his head. “All right then, come with me.” He strode back into the hallway, waving for England to follow him. With a sigh and mumbles under his breath the English nation followed.

 

America called for the carriage and they got inside. Loosening his tie, America smiled at England. “First, now you don’t have to deal with being the center of attention.”

 

Leaning back against the carriage seat England crossed his arms and ankles. “First of all, I am always the center of attention.”

 

America moved from his seat across from him to sit on the same bench. He leaned close, his lips close to England’s ear. “Right now you are at the center of _my_ attention.”

 

“So it seems.” England smirk lessened. “No, no, no. When did you become so suave?”

 

“Keen observation.”

 

“Why? When?” his shoulders tensed.

 

America blushed. “I uh... well, I think about you a lot. And I’m not blind I can see how people court.”

 

“Friendship and courting are two vastly different things Alfred.”

 

America sighed and lay his head on England’s shoulder. “Can we maybe not worry about what we are tonight? If I’m wooing all wrong, show me how.”

 

“If that is your desire.” England said quietly, reminding himself that this was what they needed. Curiosity satiated. “ You are supposed to be yourself first of all.”

 

“And then what?”

 

England turned to face him, forcing America to lean back. “You judge the atmosphere and if the other,” he grasped America's chin between his fingers as green eyes locked on blue, “will be receptive to your attentions.”

 

America swallowed, not looking away. “And?”

 

“And then when there is no sign of opposition you move in for the kill,” he murmured, pressing their mouths together.

 

***

 

America kissed him back, the worry that had been growing flitting away into nothingness. There was nothing but the sway of the carriage and England’s lips against his own. He parted his lips and England took the invitation. He had played their previous kisses over in his head and put that knowledge to work, a thrill of pleasure moving through his chest as England pressed even closer.

 

England pulled back slowly, worry flooded America’s chest. “But you can’t give them everything right away. You string them along until they can't handle it anymore. Until their infatuation is all consuming, and then you know they are gotten.” he smirked. Ah, so England was teasing him.

 

“But what if the other person wants everything?” America asked, hooking his fingers in the front of England’s waistcoat. The carriage hit an uneven cobble and the motion sent America into England’s space. He caught himself on the carriage wall, half in England’s lap.

 

“That does not matter unless they are very persistent. Even then it's questionable.”

 

“Persistence is something I know how to do.” America shifted, getting into a more stable position, all the while stretching one of his legs over England’s lap. His fingers caught in England’s tie, loosening it enough to be able to move England’s shirt collar. He pressed his lips below England’s ear.

 

“I wonder where you learnt that,” England muttered tilting his neck.

 

“It seemed like a good idea,” he whispered against England’s skin.

 

“Hm.” England's hand settled high on America's thigh as he glanced out of the window “It's a redeeming quality.”

 

“Don't hold back the praise,” America teased, he went back to what he was doing, fingers catching on the top button of England’s shirt so he could kiss the crook of his neck. England wasn’t pulling away, that was something at least.

 

“Uh uh, we still have to get out of the carriage.” Threading his fingers into America's hair, he pulled his head away from him. England gave him a crooked grin. “Need I remind you?”

 

America smiled back. “I didn’t forget.” He liked the way that England held onto him, how he brushed his fingers against the base of his skull. _Don’t get too comfortable, I’m still here._ _ **Go away.**_ _I wouldn’t miss this._ The twinge of the headaches came back, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He covered it up by pressing his face against England’s shoulder.

 

“Disappointing,” England drawled. “Reminding you would have been much more fun.”

 

“My memory may have a few gaps.” The voice in his head chuckled, but America ignored him.

 

“The moment had passed.” England released his hold on America's hair with a shrug.

 

“Too bad,” America said, taking one of England’s hands in his own and threading their fingers together. He liked the feel of England’s rough fingers against his own. “Looks like we’re back.”

 

Peering out the window England grabbed his hat. “It certainly seems so.”

 

They walked up the steps into the hotel, America feeling the nerves settling into his stomach. The moment felt a long time coming and yet too soon all the same. They got into the lift, the pulley mechanism between them. America watched England’s face. He looked thoughtful and America couldn’t help but feel a twinge of fear. Was England going to look away? The headache spiked behind his eyes and he rubbed at his forehead. _**Not tonight, not tonight.**_ _You can’t tell me what to do._ America shoved aside the pain and reached out to touch England’s sleeve. “I can call up for something to eat or drink. Is there something you want?”

 

“A cup of tea and something sweet sounds perfect,” said England. America had just turned to call the servants, but England spoke again, “On second thought. Something stiffer would be prefered.”

 

America nodded and when they arrived in his room, he went to the pipe on the wall and called for some bourbon to be brought up along with any snacks they still had in the kitchen. It didn’t take long for one of the hotel employees with a tray. America accepted it and brought it over to the small table between two armchairs by the fire. England watched the fire with a faraway expression. America poured a shot and dangled the glass in front of England’s nose. “Is something wrong?”

 

“No.” Grabbing the glass England nodded his thanks. “Just thinking.”

 

“About?” America stood beside his chair, pouring his own glass.

 

“Life.” He tipped the glass, downing the bourbon in one drink.

 

America took the glass when England proffered it to him and refilled. “That’s a lot to think about.” He settled on the arm of England’s chair and returned the glass.

 

“In a way.” He whirled the liquid around in his glass eyeing America's. “When did you start drinking?” He knocked back the other. Liquid courage.

 

“Eh, last few decades? I mean unless wine and ale counts. It was definitely safer than the water when I was little. You know, I think Matthew and I got drunk on wine once... this stuff is good though, huh?”

 

“Hm.” He shook the empty glass. “Another if you would.”

 

“Didn’t Shakespeare have something to say about alcohol and love?” America asked, pouring England another glass regardless.

 

“I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine,” England said with practiced ease.

 

“Didn’t he also say something about provoking desire, but taking away the performance? Macbeth, right?” He brushed his hand against England’s cheek. “I have a guess at what he means... so maybe don’t drink too much?”

 

“Do you think I don’t know how to balance alcohol and sex? You've met living proof of that. Did you already forget Vicente? You'll hurt his feelings.”

 

America frowned and got up from his place. He paced a few times in front of the fireplace. “I don’t care what he feels. Why are you even bringing that up?”

 

“You made a jab at my ability to balance my spirits and carnal activities. I am just reminding you that I certainly have no problem in that area.”

 

“I...” America flushed. “I wouldn’t know, so that’s why I brought it up.”

 

“If that's the case then careful what comments you make.” England sniffed.

 

_What is wrong with you, have you no class? Oh, but who am I speaking to?_ _ **Shut up, you’re the one that has no dignity.**_ _I have my pride._ _ **That’s all you’ll have if you keep it up.**_ America turned away from England, the headache a steady pounding now. This wasn’t going how he’d planned at all. Irritated, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it angrily into the spare chair and soon the tie followed suit. He put his hands on the mantle and watched the fire, feeling the heat on his face. “I don’t have any practice at this... I’ve heard and been told a lot of things over the years, but... I...” He turned to face him. “Do you not want to do this right now? I just can’t stop thinking about that time... but I guess now isn’t quite the same... you’re just acting like you don’t want to... do you want me, Arthur?” The questions tripped out of his mouth and he wasn’t sure which answer he was the most afraid to face.

 

“I agreed, did I not?” England said shortly.

 

“It’s not like this is a peace treaty, I don’t want your duty right now. I want you to want me. You said be yourself and there it is. If something happens to me...” He bit his lip, cutting off the rest of the sentence and turning back toward the fire. _Did we read him wrong?_ _ **I hope not.**_ _My plans..._ _ **You better not have any plans for him.**_

 

“Of course,” England said quietly as the liquor spread through his veins making him warm. He eyed America, his gaze traveling up and down his body. “Of course.”

 

“Of course?” America gave him a baffled look.

 

“You asked if I want you.” England popped open his collar, his hands without a single shake. Cheeks flushed from the liquor. “I don't take those who displease me to bed.”

 

America fidgeted, torn about what to do. He came over slowly, picking up the bottle of bourbon for another splash in the glass. The liquid disappeared into his mouth with a burn. He walked past England, towards the second room in the suite. “Then come with me.”

 

_You ask him for things and then don’t follow through?_ _ **I’m...**_ _Poor Alfred, do I need to take over for you?_ _ **Don’t you dare.**_ America turned back to England, wanting to do something to silence the voice. _**Be yourself...**_ _and who is that?_ The headache spiked again and America put a hand up to rub at his temple. Reaching for England, America pulled him close. _**Save me from the dark.**_ _I’ll throw you into it, and he’ll help me._ _ **Never.**_ “Show me how it’s done, Arthur,” he said, hooking his fingers into England’s jacket and pushing it off his shoulders.

 

England let him, his hands coming up to draw America further into a kiss. He could feel the other’s deft fingers against his waist coat, drawing his shirt out of his trousers before he could even think. He’d barely gotten England’s buttons undone before he was pushing America’s shirt up over his head. The back of America’s knees bumped the bed and he sat down, catching himself on his hands. England was looking at him, a look in his eye that he’d never really seen before. England’s hands finished off the buttons that America didn’t get, freeing his limbs from his own shirt. The large scar that had always caught his eye, it was on full display and he couldn’t help running the fingers across it. “My civil wars,” England said, his voice quiet.

 

America looked up at him, not willing to voice the question that was on his mind. _**Is that what’s going to happen to me?**_ _Only if we stay together, and I don’t see that happening._ England’s fingers found the scar he’d found years ago, on a tired evening after the Queen’s coronation. The burning of D.C. emblazoned across America’s skin. England hesitated, for a moment, a shadow crossing his face. Before America could ask, he leaned over him, forcing America further up the bed and stealing his breath with a kiss. Fingers sliding lower England dragged his fingertips over America's belly before settling on his waist band.

 

“Last chance,” he muttered before biting America's collar bone, making quick work of his trouser buttons.

 

America pushed aside the headache, and whatever was brewing in his mind. He could sense the presence of the voice, just waiting. His own hands settled on England’s waist. _If you’re going to do something get on with it. We should have slept with France, there was advantage there._ _ **Shut up, we’re not talking about this right now. Fuck off.**_ _Fuck you._ America squirmed a little, the pain getting worse. He didn’t want England to stop as he felt the fabric tugging further down his hips. He fumbled a little at the fastenings of England’s trousers, his eyesight a little blurry.

 

Pulling America's trousers down England grabbed America' behind the knees, pulling the other further beneath him as America fumbled with his buttons. Dropping one knee his hand moved to unbuttoning own trousers as he left teeth marks along America's shoulder.

 

Something wasn’t right. He wrapped one arm around England’s back, feeling as if something popped in his head. He put a hand to his face, pulling back his fingers to look. They were red, his nose was bleeding. The pressure in his head seemed to intensify. “Shit,” he hissed.

 

England looked up with a grin that disappeared immediately. “You-” he sat back on his heels. “Alfred.”

 

America sat up, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Lacking any clothes of his own, he caught the blanket and held it to his face. “My head...” _A gift for you dear brother, you don’t get to have all the fun._ _ **You don’t know what you’ve done! You bastard!**_ _We’re both bastards, dear heart._ “Arthur...” America glanced back at him. England had pulled his trousers up his hips and was sitting on the bed. He looked ruffled, wide eyed. America wanted to reach out to him, but hesitated, fingers falling far short of him.

 

“Alfred…” England sighed, fingers clenching at his trousers. Annoyance spread across his face. “No more.”

 

“No more?”

 

“Of this!” England gestured shortly. “I am fed up with all of these interruptions!”

 

“This isn’t my fault... just give me a moment and I’ll be fine.” A shock of pain went through his head and it took him a moment before he could even see clearly again.

 

“I'm taking it as a sign,” England said firmly.

 

“It’s a sign that my head is splitting in two.” Feeling suddenly very exposed he pulled the blanket around himself, pulling the cloth away from his nose to check the status. It seemed to have stopped. “Arthur... I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t mean it, you know that, right?”

 

“That you wanted to become a man.” England looked more uncomfortable than America had ever seen him. “To show that you’re a nation now, to sleep with me like most of the other nations have.”

 

America stared at him, emotions flitting across his face. “I wanted you, because you’re _you_. I don’t give a damn about the others. If I cared about that I would have just slept with France when he offered.”

 

England shook his head. “You're obviously unwell,” he gestured to the mess America had made. “Perhaps you should turn in.”

 

“Arthur...” America hated the choked way the word came out of his mouth. _Look at you, you are a mess._ _ **This is all your fault.**_ _Indeed, Yankee boy, indeed._ _ **You’ll be sorry.**_ _I look forward to seeing you try._ “I...”

 

England watched him silently waiting for his response. A weight settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Self-consciousness spread through America’s body and pulled back the blankets to cover himself up. He couldn’t look at him. _Maybe he doesn’t love us?_ The question from the voice sounded as melancholy as he felt. “Arthur... I... I don’t want it to be that way. I don’t want you to bed me because you’re bored, but I’m... I’m...” He took a deep breath. “...falling apart. I’m afraid we won’t get another chance. Some of the states... they are threatening secession. What if I die and someone takes my place?” He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, dabbing at his face to try and wipe away the rest of the blood.

 

England frowned. “That's not how a civil war works, Alfred.”

 

“And your last civil war was 200 years ago... I feel like there’s someone else in my head.” He thought to ask about the second Ireland, but he’d promised he’d watch over her. He didn’t know if England really knew about that. “Maybe it can be stopped still...” The words came out of his mouth, but he could feel the inevitability of something. He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to forget for just a moment.

 

***

 

England wanted to snap at him, tell him to listen to those with experience for once. To stop acting like a know it all child. It was disrespectful, rude and blatant. But England held his tongue, opting for another approach. “Come here.”

 

America squinted at him, scooting closer with the blankets in tow.

 

Reaching forward England nudged America to lie down, his head in his lap. “It will stop the blood flow from starting again,” he sighed.

 

“That was a new one... normally it’s just headaches.” He closed his eyes, body still rigid and unsure what England intended.

 

“It will pass.” England said quietly as he brushed back America's hair. He knew he needed to stand his ground. Going forward would just make it worse for both of them. America’s turn towards the fatalistic worried him, he was normally so carefree.

 

Relaxing a little, America focused on the feeling of England’s fingers on his scalp. “Promise me something?”

 

“That depends.”

 

“It’s an easy one. Just, if something does happen to me... I want you to remember me.”

 

“Alfred!” England said sharply, the shock at his words causing his fingers to tighten their grip. “Do not talk like that!” America's statement didn't sit well with England. The boy had always been dramatic and England had put up with it for years but for him to be dramatic over such a thing unsettled him. Would sleeping with America help stop it?

 

***

 

Wincing as England tugged on his hair, he said, “I’m just trying to be prepared.” _He’ll get over you soon enough. I don’t know why you are bothering._ _ **Leave me be!**_ _Gladly, when I’m free from you I’d be happy to not see your face again._ _ **You’re not going anywhere.**_

 

“There is nothing of such matters to prepare for!”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Because I do.”

 

America opened his eyes, looking up at him. He reached up and touched the furrow of England’s brow. “I guess I should be glad you don’t think I’ll fade.” He sat up, his bare back to England. “If you want to go, I understand.”

 

“No.” England said, quietly. Reaching forward, he turned America’s head and pulled him into another kiss. Shocked, America almost pulled away, but then he kissed back with eagerness. England pushed America back into the mattress, never once breaking the kiss.

 

Body half-trapped in the blankets America wrapped his arms around England’s back. Fear and want battled for supremacy. Fear that the headaches would return. If he blacked out? He didn’t want to hurt him. As if in response his body tensed, a finger of pain sliding from his skull down his back. _**Don’t, stop.**_ _He tastes good. This will not be the last, for me that is._ _ **Go away!**_ America’s hands slid down England’s back, pausing at the small of it, nerves getting the better of him. _Bless your heart, so innocent._ _ **You’re not any better.**_ _Maybe... maybe I’ll just take all the romance with me when I leave. And him, too._

 

_******* _

 

England's fingers found purchase on America's hips, rubbing soothing circles into them as his free hand worked at his trousers. It would help, giving the boy what he wanted, right? France’s accusation came to mind, ‘you always did spoil him,’ but he quickly banished the thought. Coaxing America's mouth open so their tongues tangled ,England pulled a moan from the boy as he finally dropped his trousers from his hips, focusing on removing the blankets that were obstructing them.

 

America took a deep shaky breath when England’s mouth left his own to find that enticing spot just below his ear that sent sparks up and down his body. Without thinking, America tangled his fingers in England’s hair. “I love you.” The words tumbled out breathlessly, as if they were as light as a thought.

 

England faltered for a moment, the statement shocking him. Biting down a bit harder than necessary England tried to reorganize his thoughts. People say all sorts of things when they were in the middle of sex. And Alfred was highly emotional to begin with. His resolve strengthened a bit at the thought. No need to stumble. Clenching America's hips he took a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

 

***

 

He’d needed to say it, at least once in case he never got the chance again. His own thoughts were echoed by the voice. _He didn’t say it back..._ _ **He’s not always good with words, you know that.**_ _He’s the nation that produced Chaucer, Byron, Wordsworth... hell, Shakespeare... if you think he had the words for us he wouldn’t use them?_ The doubt crept into his chest, he tried to keep his face still. _**You don’t know what you’re talking about.**_ _I know what you know._ He squeezed his eyes shut, maybe England just wasn’t ready. He had to wait for years to just get a kiss. More years to get here with England’s warm body pressed against his own, the desire pooling in his stomach. He didn’t answer at first, fingers roaming over England’s skin and trying to get more comfortable beneath England’s weight. “I’ve been ready for a long time. I trust you.” He reached out and cupped England’s cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb against England’s cheek. Something changed in England’s green eyes, an emotion flitting across his face. He almost looked afraid. Afraid of what?

 

“That's a fool's errand,” England said quietly.

 

“Why?” America shifted, leaning up on his elbows. “Is something wrong?”

 

“I didn't say anything was wrong!” England snapped. “You can't honestly think this is helping with the mood!”

 

“Hold on,” America said, twisting around to drop his glasses on the bedside table. “Now I’m ready.” England was still frowning at him, but he wasn’t really sure what to do.

 

“It’s,” England sighed, sitting back on his heels once again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Twice. In less than ten minutes.” He heaved a sigh.

 

America leaned up, wrapping his arms around England’s shoulders and rolling England beneath him. “I guess I’m not very good at this, yet.” America rested his weight on his elbows and looked down at him.

 

England gave him a flat look. “Oh, are you taking the lead now?”

 

“I could try.”

 

“Whatever it takes to actually get something started.”

 

He shifted, getting onto his side to take the pressure of his arms. He’d felt so weak in the past weeks and he didn’t want England to see. He gathered him close, kissing him. He slid his hands over England’s skin, wishing he could see him better in the dim light. Sliding his hands to England’s hips, he brought him closer, faltering a little at the heat of England’s body against his own.

 

“Alfred.” England sighed in irritation. this was taking forever “Did you drink too much?”

 

“Huh? You drank more than I did...”

 

“Honestly you could have fooled me.” He said sharply “Just let me take the lead. I would like to sleep before morning.”

 

“What’s the rush?”

 

“You mean months?” England sighed “I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, but sex does not stop and go for hours normally.”

 

“It’s not like I planned to get sick when I asked you... I may have no idea about the details of all this... but I’m not an idiot.” America frowned at him. Shifting away from him, humiliation spreading across his face.

 

England sighed in frustration, rubbing his face. “I suggest we just turn in it seems the trend of falling short will continue,” he said voice tight.

 

“If that’s how you feel, get out of my bed.” America’s voice hardened and he sat up. “You’ve always been good at walking away. So do it.”

 

***

 

That one hurt. He had explained more than once to America why he had been forced to leave. Yanking off the blankets England got to his feet, grabbing for his clothes angrily. “Saved by grace,” he snapped as he dressed quickly.

 

“I can’t miss something I never had,” America said, grabbing England’s trousers that were still on the bed and threw them at him.

 

“At least you have some kind of aim,” England hissed, catching them, yanking them on before shoving his feet into his shoes.

 

“I know. And maybe you won’t be so lucky the next time I throw something your way.”

 

England snorted. “As if anything would ever happen.”

 

“Get out,” America said, his voice harder than he’d ever used with the other before.

 

“Gladly!” England snapped and grabbed his shirt before yanking open the door to only slam it behind him. “Maybe I should have taken your little revolution as a fucking hint. Keep me around until some kind of conflict and then toss me to the side like some kind of trash. Classy, Alfred. You still can't follow anything through to the end,” he spat out, leaving America no time time respond. He stormed down the hall, glad his own rooms were not far. He looked a right mess and he didn't want to deal with anything. Unlocking the door to his rooms he was glad to see Edward was still out. He didn't have the patience to deal with anyone at the moment.

 

***

 

America collapsed backward on the bed, hurt and embarrassment waging war for the dominant emotion.

 

_Excellent work, Billy Yank, I couldn’t have done better._

 

_**Shut the hell up.** _

 

The laughter sounded like his own, but not quite the same.

 

 


	17. Stars and Bars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So sorry for the long wait! A lot of things have gone down in both of our lives and there was no time to update! But we are definitely still writing! Thanks for your patience! 
> 
> we approached the storytelling from the international relations, a perspective which is not one commonly used in historical accounts.

_ April 12, 1861 _

_ Charleston, South Carolina _

 

The cannon boomed and the fog cleared from his mind. The world snapped into focus and he looked up at the stars. It was hours before dawn and he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten here, but as the second cannon boomed from Fort Johnson towards Fort Sumter he grinned. He’d been walking through a cloud for so long, neither here nor there, but now he knew exactly who he was.

 

He hurried through the streets, headed for the fort. They stopped him at the gate and he ran a hand impatiently through his hair. “I would like to praise Lieutenant Farley for a shot well done.”

 

“How did... how did you know he was the one who fired?” The man at the gate said. 

 

“You can tell the Captain in charge of this fort that the Confederate States of America has arrived,” he said, raising his chin. Gasps sounded from the men that overheard and soon he was on the ramparts watching as the cannons fired one after the other, the pause between just long enough for the echo to quiet. His chest swelled with anticipation. Finally, Fort Sumter fired at Fort Moultrie. It missed entirely. Whoever was in charge of the fort must have ordered only the lower cannons, probably wise. The Confederate shells were falling over the top of the fort. “Come now, Yankee, you can do better than that. Don’t be a coward.”

 

He applauded the fools behind the walls when they quieted for a while and then the cannons began again. They had been told to evacuate months ago, but Union never lacked stubbornness. The fort had no range on his gun emplacements whatsoever. Fort Sumter may be made of stone, but its innards were not. The fort had been designed not long after the War of 1812 and if he’d made an assault from the water, it would have stood. The yankee never had any imagination. He never dreamed that someone would be firing from the lands surrounding the aquatic fort. 

 

Smoke billowed and glowed from the burning wooden buildings as night fell on the first day of bombardment. “Is this all you can do? This is too easy,” he grumbled, pulling out his scope to look at the American, now Union, battle flag still flying above the building. He frowned. There were Yankee ships in the harbor, but they were all acting the coward. Even his own people couldn’t help but jeer at them as they moved forward and then were turned back with only a few shots. The guns from Fort Sumter were quieting for the night, no doubt trying to get some rest. He wouldn’t allow that. 

 

Yawning, Confederacy walked from his post back towards the quarters he’d been assigned. Lighting a candle, the flame’s glow catching on a shaving mirror caught his attention.  _ What do I look like? Do I look like him?  _ he wondered. He paused, fingers closing over the glass and taking a deep breath. Picking it up he took in his reflection. His blond hair lay flat against his forehead. He pushed his glasses up his nose and the light caught his eyes. Gray-blue, like a storm. He sighed and sat the mirror back on the table. It was a pity, Union and he had the same face. 

 

He lay down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. “No use pitying the misfortune of his face. I will simply have to use it to my advantage,” he said to the empty room. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision and pain shuddered through his body. Clutching his skull he doubled over, feeling a searing pain. He grabbed for the edge of the blanket, feeling the warm blood drip from his nose. He closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to pass.

 

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that Fort Sumter fell and Confederacy felt the first thrill of victory.

 

***

 

_ April 16th, 1861 _

 

_ Dear Arthur, _

 

_ I’m sure that you are aware, especially since the question of secession is no longer academic. It’s started and only days ago the first battle happened. I cannot describe it to you. And... I’m not entirely certain if you care. _

 

_ I wanted to write to you to remember your promise to me. That you won’t get involved. No matter what happens to me... I don’t want you to get caught up. Please.  _

 

_ Yours truly, _

_ Alfred _

 

***

 

_ May 13, 1861 _

_ London, England  _

 

“You already wrote it.” England looked up from the papers on his desk as Victoria strode into the room with a single sheet of parchment in her hand. Glancing at the sun pouring in the window, England guessed that it was just past eleven in the morning. 

 

“Of course, it’s finished. There was really nothing to think over.” Queen Victoria of England sighed, giving him the letter as he motioned for her to hand it over. Straightening his reading glasses, England cleared his throat to read the letter out loud. 

 

_ Whereas we are happily at peace with all sovereign powers and States: _

 

_ And whereas hostilities have unhappily commenced between the Government of the United States of America and certain States styling themselves the Confederate States of America: _

 

_ And whereas we, being at peace with the Government of the United States have declared our royal determination to maintain a strict and partial neutrality in the contest between the said contending parties: _

 

_ We therefore have thought fit, by [and with] the advice of our privy council, to issue this our royal proclamation: _

 

_ And we do hereby strictly charge and command all our loving subjects to observe a strict neutrality in and during the aforesaid hostilities, and to abstain from violating or contravening either the laws and statutes of the realm in this behalf or the law of nations in relation thereto, as they will answer to the contrary at their peril. _

 

England looked up from the letter in concern. “So that's that then. Even with the threat to our textile industry without cotton from the South?” That wasn’t the end of it either. He could feel the edginess of his people in Canada and the Caribbean. They were close enough to make extra money soldiering, even if the Queen had forbade involvement in foreign conflicts years ago. That hadn’t stopped anyone from joining the Italian army during their war. England had the sinking feeling it wouldn’t now. Victoria had to know that. He could see in her eyes that she didn’t think they could stay completely out of the conflict.

 

Victoria firmly said, “I have no desire to get wrapped up in that annoying nation’s debacle any further. Plays and articles are one thing, having any sort of moral authority of the Americans hasn’t been our concern for a hundred years.” Her skirts rustled loudly as she turned around to exit. “No arguments, Arthur. This I shall not budge on.” And with a swish of fabric she was out the door and gone from his office. 

 

England stared down at the letter. It was so simple, so final and so quickly done. As impossible a request as the one America had sent him. He swallowed, crumpling the paper slightly. He frowned. America’s people have been agitating at him for the last year or so. Some thought if he could be the villain once again they wouldn’t fall apart. He hated it. He could see the wisdom of it.  _ I hate England, but I like Englishmen.  _ Wasn’t that what the American writer had said? 

 

“Shit.” 

 

***

 

_ June 1861 _

_ Paris, France _

 

“Francis, you can’t just summon me. I don’t really have time for...” said England, marching into France’s sitting room and pausing when he saw the other bent over his writing desk. He raised an eyebrow. France wasn’t exactly the picture of decorum that he usually exuded. His hair had been tied back messily and papers were stacked and strewn about the floor around him. “You’re not starting another war are you? I don’t have time for that.”

 

France looked up, ink smeared across his forehead. “No, but we might be in a war if you can’t get Alfred under control. He’s being completely unreasonable.”

 

“When has he ever been reasonable?” asked England, frowning as he settled into one of the armchairs. “What’s he done now, besides cease all correspondence as his people bloody each other and some style themselves a new nation?” He looked down at the toes of his boots, they would need to be shined again. Paris always dirtied his shoes.

 

“I’m surprised at you,  _ mon ami.  _ Not a sliver of concern?” He could hear France moving, getting up and taking a seat on the couch across from him. 

 

“Alfred has made it quite clear he can make his own mistakes. Besides that I’ve been ordered by my queen to stay out of it.”

 

“Since when has that ever stopped you before?”

 

“Did you honestly send for me to cross the Channel to discuss America?”

 

“If you don’t wish to speak of Alfred, we won’t. But I do have a large concern over the blockade of the southern states in rebellion. The cotton,  _ our  _ cotton, is just sitting on the docks because any ship attempting to enter the ports is fired upon by the US Navy. My mills will have nothing to work with if it lasts for very long.”

 

“The sentiment seems to be that the Americans will cool their hot heads soon enough and everything will go back to normal.” He glanced up at France. The other looked at him like he was a complete fool.

 

“I’ve lived a long time... I don’t have a good feeling that this is a rebellion that will be over in a summer.”

 

“Why are you calling this a rebellion? It’s a civil war. Alfred will pull himself together and everything will be fine.”

 

“Recently, some of my aristocrats went on a visit to the United States. They wanted to see what the situation was and gather more information about the continuation of commerce during the war. They were hardly given an audience. Alfred has made no apology to me for his bad behavior and it seems no one can find him anyway...”

 

“What do you mean no one can find him?” England said, concern rising in his gut.

 

“As I have said, no one knows. Anyhow, I wanted you to be aware that my people are forming armed regiments to become involved. As there is no war on in Europe, there is a lack of things for military men to do. However, they are not going to help the Northern states. They are headed for the Confederate States of America. Infelicitous name is it not?”

 

“You think they are trying for independence?”

 

“As I asked previously, have you not read the newspapers?”

 

“I’ve been a little preoccupied with the Irish ones. There’s been calls to evade the queen’s edict that no one get involved. The Fenians are encouraging Irishmen to go and fight, either side, so they can get the skills and training to fight me and mine when they return.” He rubbed at his forehead. The meeting with Ireland that day before hadn’t been pleasant, not in the slightest. “My brother has been lying to me. There’s a second Ireland, but I don’t know where he’s stashed her. I don’t know why he bothers to protect her since she’ll no doubt be after him, too. So you see, I don’t have time to worry about America trying to cut himself in half right now.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, they made England feel sick. The truth was far more complicated. He couldn’t help but worry about him. They were tangled together in too many ways.

 

“Arthur, what if there is a second America? As there is a second Ireland?”

 

“Well, if we could disabuse him of his dependence on slavery maybe two Americas wouldn’t be so bad.” The words felt bitter in his mouth and the anger he’d been keeping burning in regards to America flared.  _ Selfish brat.  _

 

“I’m surprised to hear you say that. Although, I suppose that leads into my official reason for requesting you here. I believe that it would be to our mutual benefit to act in concert over the American problem. We should be in step so that he does not have an opportunity to play us against each other as he has done in the past.”

 

“You’re proposing to follow my lead?” England raised an eyebrow.

 

“As I know how you feel about him, I think that would only be right.”

 

“I don’t feel  _ anything _ for him.” His eyes narrowed. The memory of America telling him to get out was a sore spot that he couldn’t help but prod like a sore tooth.

 

“Arthur...”

 

“Francis. If you would like me to remain here so that we can come to a formal agreement, I suggest you do not bring up any more personal points.”

 

“Allow me one more in regards to Matthew.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“I would like to know what you are going to do to protect him. You know how Alfred gets when he’s in pain and since I read the papers, I know that he is lashing out at you as well as himself. Both halves of him want your support. And when he gets angry at you, he has a tendency to take it out on his brother.”

 

“I have sent more troops to Canada. I will defend the border against Americans who decide to use the chaos as yet another attempt at adding Canadian lands to American ones. Are you happy?”

 

“As well as I can expect.”

 

“Jolly good, now let’s work on this agreement.”

 

***

 

_ July 21, 1861 _

_ Outside Manassas, Virginia _

_ First Battle of Bull Run (USA)/Battle of First Manassas (CSA) _

 

Confederacy could still see the Yankees running towards Washington D.C. in the distance. He smiled and rubbed some of the sweat from his forehead, pulling off his gray cap to run a hand through his hair. They’d won. Union had been confident when the day started, but ended up in a complete route by the end. 

 

Feeling dizzy, he sat down on the side of the road. The wagons were rolling by now, gathering up the wounded and the dead. He reached into his pack for a piece of bread and chewed on it. With this victory he should be able to approach the other nations with an offer. Union was going to be looking the fool. The trouble was that he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Union had stayed on the battlefield until the very end, even when he no longer had a good position. 

 

This war was going to be a long one. 

 

Later that night, he sat in his tent, fingers gripping his dip pen as he thought of how he wanted to begin the correspondence. He’d been the same person as Union, they were two halves of what had formerly made up one. He was certain of that. He could remember being found in Jamestown. He could recall the surrender of General Cornwallis in Yorktown. His heart fluttered when he thought about writing to England. There were so many things he wanted to say! He should be happy to hear about his existence. He could do things for him that Union couldn’t with all his Yankee bombast. Putting the nib to paper he began to write.

 

_ Dear Arthur, _

 

_ I hope this letter finds you in good health. I write to you with prestigious news. I have bested the Union forces outside the town of Manassas, Virginia on this the twenty-first of July, eighteen-sixty-one. It is a further prestigious day as it provides proof that I will not disappear no matter his schemes. He is a vain and in this moment, my righteousness has prevailed. _

 

_ I hope that I can meet with you soon to discuss the future of relations between our two nations. You do not need to worry about any promises you have made with the one who called himself the United States of America for we have replaced him, the Union, and myself, the Confederacy. _

 

_ I would highly appreciate your service in the breaking of Union’s illegal blockade against me as it disrupts, not only my own commerce, but yours as well. I hope to hear from you directly as I have a feeling he would be most interested in interrupting our words.  _

 

_ With sincerity and love, _

_ Johnny Jones _

 

After the ink had dried, he ran his fingers over his name, smiling. England would know him and say his name.

 

***

 

 

_ November 1861 _

_ London, England _

 

“Oy! Jolly Good!” England called out, hand covering his eyes as he watched the cricket practice. Cricket season would start up again in a few months, the game quickly becoming a favorite throughout the country. Hugging his coat tightly about him England blew into his hands, mumbling few archaic words so a small flame came to life in his cupped hands. He nursed the flame carefully as not to burn himself, but thankful for its warmth. He cast a glance at Victoria and Albert who were watching the practice with high level of interest as well. 

Short and intimate whispers were exchanged between the pair, smiles lifting both mouths. England felt a pang of envy within his chest. He was jealous of what they had, happy for them, but jealous of what they had discovered. He had taken many lovers to bed, yet that level of intimacy was something that he had never experienced. 

“You should invite Alfred to next cricket season. He can make up for his mess that he’s caused in the textile industry,” said Prince Albert. Victoria turned to look at England who in turn turned red, as he realized that he had been caught watching them. 

 

“Why ever would I do that?” England scowled as the two looked at each other. “Oh, come off it you two.” 

 

“Oh come now, Arthur.” Albert leaned forward in his chair. “You seem to enjoy each other's company rather well. I’m sure you are worried about him. Why deny it?” 

 

“You’re being lewd,” England said flatly as Victoria shot him a dirty look at the accusation. This was not the first time that the pair had brought up this topic and it seemed that it would not be the last time if this couple had anything to do with it. How Victoria could curse America in one breath and encourage England to spend time with him in another was an enigma that he couldn’t quite figure out. “There was an incident and we are not on the best of terms. If I wish to invite someone, there are others.” 

 

Albert sighed. “Even if Victoria had not told me about what she saw pass between you two at her coronation and then what I have personally observed-   
  


“You are fishing My Lord.” England said as the servants that attended the royal entourage brought forward hot drinks and foods at the snap of his fingers.

“Can it really be considered fishing when I'm not looking for anything?” Albert arched a brow and England rolled his eyes, sitting back against his seat with a sigh. Half of the conversations he had with the royal couple these days seemed to end in such jibes.

“We just want what’s best for you,” Victoria said quietly. “I have watched you since I took the crown and I see things that your stubborn nature does not. You have not smiled at anything in months. Even now, I can tell you are enjoying the sport, but there is a shadow over your face.”

“Victoria-”

“As one who loves greatly I would tell you that despite the age difference i feel I may have the upper hand on wisdom in this particular area.” 

 

“Yes, your majesty.” England sighed, taking the hot cup of tea from a servant and peered into the cup. The lightheartedness and distraction that the cricket practice had offered him was now gone. Filled with the confusion and round about thoughts that Alfred always seemed to bring up these days.   “A US warship stopped a British mail ship to capture two Confederate commissioners attempting to sail to England.” England changed the conversation to that of the news they had received that morning. He watched Victoria’s hand clench the arm of her chair, she was angry yet the expression on her face remained pleasant. She had already gone off at breakfast. 

“Yes, that is another reason I think you should invite Alfred” Albert said smoothly. “There needs to be discussions in regards to what neutrality-”

“What it actually means, since he seems to only think that it is a tool that he is only allowed to use!” England said sharply. 

 

“Arthur-”

“He disrespected our flag, Albert!” England interrupted. “He might as well be asking to go to fucking war!” England got out of his seat, catching the attention of the cricket players who went straight back to practice when he shot them a glare. “That Captain of the  _ USS San Jacinto _ arrested those two envoys on  _ our _ mail ship. They boarded the  _ Trent _ , completely ignoring our colors and arrested those men! We have not taken sides in the war! The US seized a neutral ship! It's a violation of international law! They even imprisoned them in Boston! They had paid their way onto that ship! I demand an apology! And if the US wants war we bloody as well better give it to them!” It felt good to curse America, and hopefully it would put a stop to what Prince Albert had been insinuating for months.

 

“I feel we should be cautious not to overreact,” Albert offered.

“We shall ban exports of war materials and send additional troops to Canada,” Victoria interrupted to England's delight and Albert’s horror. The dark haired Queen leveled her gaze on England. “You are correct. If the United States wants war, we shall give it them, and I am certain that France shall back us as one of those envoys was to sail to France. The United States has just slighted two of the oldest nations in Europe.” The Queen’s lip curled as England did nothing to smother the grin of success that crawled over his mouth. 

 

“Perfect.”

 

_ *** _

 

_ December 1861 _

_ London, England  _

 

“We aren’t even supposed to be involved in this nonsense!” England hissed as he strode down the halls of Buckingham Palace, servants bowing and scurrying out of the way with Lord Palmerston following behind him, a stack of papers tucked beneath one arm. 

 

“Lord Kirkland, it’s-”

 

“A fucking disaster is what it is.” England seethed, casting a hard glare at his prime minister. “And you said that the nation America has had the bloody gall to show up with his delegates?”

 

“Yes m’Lord. And he requested that he wait in a separate room than that of William Seward, his Secretary of State.”

 

“The nerve of that prat!” England snapped. All of the emotion brought on by America’s last rejection floated to the surface. The fool wanted to see him alone so he could, what? Get him fired up and then leave him cold. The arsehole was probably getting some sick sense of revenge out of the whole thing. “Where is he?”

 

“Your private study, Lord Kirkland.”

 

“Good! Now the rest of the palace doesn't have to listen to me as I tear that ungrateful boy to shreds,” England muttered. America didn’t even deserve to be called a man anymore. England was vaguely aware that Lyons bowed himself out as he turned down a separate hall to attend to his own meeting. 

 

With elongated strides England beelined for his study, after so many months of doing his best to ignore America, he was more than ready to lay into him. Reaching the doors that opened into his study he harshly twisted the knob, flinging the door open in an angry matter, all but stomping into his study. “Alfred, you bloody arse who do you think you are!?” England snapped, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

“I believe he thinks of himself as an inventor, an industrialist, and the sort that feels he has the exclusive right to the definition of freedom.” America turned, the light from the window catching his face. He shrugged, a more elegant gesture than England had ever seen him perform. “However, I do agree with your assessment that Union is an ass and is making life very difficult for me.” 

 

England stopped, eyes narrowing. Something was off. America was... different. England’s thoughts jumped briefly to the letter that America had sent him, though it was pointless. Everyone in Europe was watching the American civil war carefully. America must just be voicing some of his people's opinions, those citizens who now called themselves the Confederates. England’s nose wrinkled in distaste. The flip flop of voices that was certain to follow was going to be a right pain to keep up with. Especially with America’s odd choice of words. As if he was talking about another person rather than himself. 

 

America was even presenting himself differently. It was then that England took in the subtle differences at the physical level. America had smoothed down his hair, finally taming that cowlick. And the stress must be getting to him for his eyes didn’t seem to be the ocean blue they normally were. “I warned you about the change of voices... have the fits started?” The coals of England’s anger were temporarily banked, as his curiosity took the front.

 

“I apologize for the confusion. I, after all, came here to introduce myself in person. You can call me Johnny, I am the Confederate States of America.” He offered a formal bow. His nose wrinkled. “Union will have no doubt soured my name and called me rebel. I had hoped that my letter would arrive before myself, but no doubt Union snatched it off some other vessel.”

 

England gave America a deadpanned look. “Did you really come all the way across the Atlantic to play pretend, Alfred?” He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I take everything back about you having grown up. If you think a diplomatic meeting is the time to play dress up and pretend then you still have a long way to go,” he said, gesturing at America’s ensemble. England had been ready to rip into America upon entering the room and now he was just filled with exasperation. 

 

The young man’s eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, walking toward England and stopping nearby, squaring his shoulders. “You have me wrong. There are two Americas now. You should have seen his army fleeing the field at Manassas, chaos. Made a damn fool of himself thinking that I would just lay down and let him invade me. His seizure of me on your vessel was illegal. What do I care if you invade him to save face? It would draw his damned navy away from my ports so that I could bring you cotton.” He seemed to realize that the tenor of his voice had grown louder and he took a deep breath, straightening his jacket. “What would it take to prove to you that I am not Alfred?”

 

England watched America quietly. This was so odd. Was it possible that what America was saying was true? He was the first nation of the ‘modern’ world to be formed. Was it possible that this was a new side effect of civil wars? But if that was the case then why wasn’t there two of them? This had to be America’s odd coping mechanism. “Say…” he paused “Say I play your game... Johnny is what you're going by at the moment correct? Fine. Say I believe you. I want to speak with Alfred.”

 

“He’s no doubt still in Washington fretting about how I might invade  _ him.  _ I would have thought he’d corresponded with you regarding meeting with me.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and crossed his arms. “How would I know his exact location when I’ve been at sea?”

 

“If that truly is the case.”England said flatly, his patience with the game running thin. “And you are not Alfred then you have no right being in my private wing in Buckingham palace, because I have no clue who you are and I shall be alerting the guards we have a trespasser and I want nothing to do with you.” 

 

Sadness filled the boy’s face. “Arthur, you do know me. Alfred and I... we were one and the same before I broke free. I remember everything...” He paused, his hand twitching at his side as though he wanted to reach out and touch England, something America would have already attempted. “However, if you feel that I need to establish my credentials with you first, I respect your decision. You will, no doubt, wish to meet with me considering the cotton that Union is working so hard to prevent shipping.”

 

“If you are two separate people then seeing you two in the same room would be the only way to prove it.” England frowned, becoming fed up. “I quickly find my patience disappearing, Master Jones.” He all but sneered. “You leave me cold and then show up over a year later with this facade? You're being a fucking prat. It's not funny.” His hands, hanging at his sides, curled into fists.

 

“Inquire with Seamus about Colleen, she’s also Ireland. Or ask Matthew. I’m sure he’s seen Alfred lately. I certainly don’t want to be in the same room with him,” he replied with a haughty raising of his chin. He stepped forward again, leaning closer to England. “As far as leaving you cold,  _ I  _ would never do such a thing.”

 

England took a step back “I should talk to Matthew. He was always the sensible one of you two.”

 

“His soldiers certainly are helpful, so good of them to sneak down through Union’s lands to come to mine. Unfortunately, some of them pretend to be from the midwest and join his side, too.” Confederacy shrugged. “And there are  _ three  _ of us. Not two.”

 

“Until I can confirm it there are two. Matthew and Alfred,” he said stubbornly.

 

“And me.” Sighing, he stepped around England. “I suppose I won’t take up too much of your time this afternoon as you have need to send telegrams to my brothers. I have some other business to take care of anyhow. You are welcome to call on me at any time, although I have been invited to dine with several important individuals this evening. I’m sure they would extend you an invitation.”

 

“You aren’t leaving this room without guards,” England said turning around sharply. “I told you, I don’t trust you right now.”

 

Pausing near the doorway, he turned, running a hand through his hair for a moment then letting his hands fall at his side. “If you feel the need to have me followed I suppose there is little I can do to stop you. However, even if you still believe, wrongly I may add, that I am my brother you would know that you can’t really force me to do anything without choosing a side. From what I understand, your queen has expressly forbidden you from any such choice. What was the words she used, ‘strict and partial neutrality’?”

 

“You are America. I am not choosing sides.” England snapped. 

 

“‘America’ doesn’t exist as a single entity anymore. I have seceded from him. There is the United States of America and the Confederate States of America... and, if you would like my opinion, I think you should choose my side.” A smile crept up on the side of the young man who claimed he was the Confederacy’s face, it was a guarded courtier’s smile, not the honest one America would sport.

 

Stalking over to a decorated rope on the wall England pulled on it in a frustrated manner. A few  tense moments of silence spread over the distance between the pair before the clank of feet hitting stone began in the hallway. “They shall be the guards escorting you today.” England glared at the adjacent blond. 

 

“They will be rather bored. I only intended to write some letters at the lodgings my people have secured.” The door opened and the guards appeared. A frown of annoyance crossed his face as he looked from the soldiers to England. “Good day, then. Do call on me.”

 

“I am entertaining another nation tonight so do not count on it.” England said tartly, thinking about how America's arrival had pulled him from his bed abruptly. He had gone to bed irritated the previous night. Germany was once again at court, having come at England’s request with his dignitaries. He had fully planned on once again taking the young German into his bed, the other having endless energy and he calculating attentions to remember exactly what he liked in good sex. Yet, he had been unable to summon up enough lust to invite the other, instead he had had drinks with the young man and then excused himself with complaint of a headache. It wasn’t that there was a problem getting blond hair and blue eyes to fill his thoughts, the features were just that of a different nation. 

 

Stepping away from the door and deeper into the room, where the guards couldn’t see, Confederacy did reach for the buttons on England’s coat. “Shame,” he said, leaning close to brush a kiss against England’s cheek. “For I have a vested interest in our international relations. And I have fond memories of that night when I was young, why it must have been nearly 100 years ago, and I quivered with anticipation that you would kiss me. Again, shame that you did not.” 

 

Knocking his hands away England scowled. “Now I am certain you are delusional for I have no idea what you are talking about.”

 

“That’s too bad, because I do. It was in the gardens of Philadelphia and I told you I was from South Carolina. I suppose the mask was a better disguise than I’d ever thought.” 

 

England racked his brain and then it clicked, the color draining from his face. “No.”

 

“You do remember.”

 

“Then you….” England felt his stomach turn. He was going to be sick. Shaking his head he put more distance between them. “Absolutely not.”

 

“I can tell that you know the truth of the matter. I know it hurts, it hurt that you had chosen that bastard mutt of Europe rather than me. Alfred is a hodge-podge. I’m... well, you’ll have to get to know me.”

 

“How...?” England couldn't formulate words. This was too confusing. One of the guards poked his head around the corner. 

 

“Forgive me m’Lord. But it seems as if Lord Beilschmidt is looking for you.”

 

“Ah, yes.” England swallowed and the man stepped away. “As you see I am busy... you guards.” he gestured to the men around the corner.

 

Confederacy’s brow furrowed. “Which of the brothers is here?”

 

“I don't see why it's your business... but Ludwig.”

 

“If you have trade agreements to discuss, then I won’t get in your way. That way you can settle things quickly and we can discuss other matters.”

 

“I told you I was busy. Ludwig is here as a personal guest so he shall have my undivided attention.” 

 

“Personal.” The word dripped off his tongue, assumption crossing his face. “Poor Union, that you would find a facsimile so quickly. I hoped...” His words caught and he walked towards the doors. “I still have business with you so I suggest you make some time. I can be very stubborn.” Without giving England a chance to respond he moved between the guards and they turned to follow him.

 

“Fucking prat,” England muttered when he disappeared around the corner.

 

***

 

_ How dare he! _ Confederacy cursed as the ink bottle tipped over onto the letter he was writing when his fist clenched. He sniffed, feeling the warmth of a nosebleed coming and he reached for his handkerchief, pushing away from his writing desk and beginning to pace. England was such a changeable bastard! To have given up on them so quickly! Maybe he should have let Union get buggered, maybe that would have kept England’s attention.  _ Faithless... _ He kicked his chair and it flew across the room.

 

“Are you alright, sir?” One of the guards said.

 

“Are you honestly accompanying me the entire evening?” he sputtered, realizing that he’s gotten ink on his palm. He began rubbing at the splotch with his blood spotted handkerchief. 

 

“Those were the orders.”

 

“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath. The feeling of sheer botherment was wearing on him. He needed England’s help to break Union’s blockade or at the very least keep him distracted long enough to... He straightened. “I’m going to my dinner invitation. I suppose if you must come that is that.” They didn’t stop him as he walked towards his room calling for a valet. England may be difficult to woo, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a splash in London society. He knew they were curious about him, he would win the battle of hearts and minds.

 

***

 

“‘Vell, I guess that is something.” Ludwig admitted as he and England strolled down the street. After running into America in the Palace England had told Ludwig they would be taking supper in one of his favorite haunts. The very same restaurant he had taken Canada and America the last time they had dined with him in London. Entering the full restaurant England was pleased to see the host rush towards them to grab their coats. He had sent a servant that morning to reserve his usual table. Handing over his hat and coat he turned to gesture Germany in front of him and his heart dropped into his stomach as he caught sight of a busy table. America, Confederacy, whatever the hell he was. 

 

Confederacy didn’t let the smile linger for too long. How had he gotten an invitation to the club!? He looked away from England and turned back to the man he’d been speaking to. “Yes, it’s a shame that shipping is being delayed. We can only hope that this whole issue is abated by summer’s end.”

  
  


“Alfred is here?” Ludwig’s surprised voice caught England's attention and as he glanced at the German nation, noticing his uncomfortable expression. As if he had been a child who had caught with his hands in the sweet jar. 

 

“Yes, but the diplomatic reasons did not involve me personally so I have not been spending time with him. We are in sort of disagreement you see,” England admitted. “But, I suppose it would be polite for us to say hello wouldn't it?” England sighed, angry at himself for the curiosity that was burning in his chest, and at Germany's reluctant nod they slowly made their way over. 

 

“Good evening,” England said flatly as they arrived at the table. Germany stayed silent for a moment longer, a surprised look on his face as he looked Confederacy over. 

 

“Alfred, it has been a ‘vhile.”

 

“It’s an easy mistake to make, but I’m not Alfred,” he replied, eyeing England. “You can call me Johnny.” He leaned closer to explain the rest of who he was and confusion crossed Germany’s face. “These fine gentlemen were just agreeing with me that the blockade of my country is unlawful and something should be done about it.”

 

“Everyone does seem to have their two pennies don’t they,” England said tightly. “Well... Master Jones we simply came over to say hello. However, our table is reserved and waiting. So we shall have to say our goodbyes. Lord Beilschmidt and I have a very busy evening ahead.” England nodded to the other men as Germany coughed into his hand as to distract himself from his embarrassment. England was furious. America/Confederacy was still keeping up such a facade in public! This was ridiculous! He wanted as much distance between him and the American nation as possible before he throttled thim.

 

“As I mentioned to you earlier, if you are too busy with, ah how should I say...  _ pursuits _ , perhaps? I have business of my own to attend to. If you do not wish to hear me out, Arthur...” He shrugged. 

 

“It's Lord Kirkland, Master Jones,” England said swiftly. “And you yourself were the one who so kindly reminded me that I am not to get involved.” He straightened his shirt sleeves as a way to steady himself.

 

“So you say, and we both can recall times when you broke your own rules. Now, I was engaged.” He turned away from him in a dismissive gesture.

 

England felt a surge of anger rise in his chest and before turning on his heel to leave he bent from the waist, gripping the back of America’s chair to whisper harshly in his ear. “Don’t be so pissed just because you're not the one I am taking to bed. You screwed that up yourself.” Straightening with a tug on his vest he gestured for Germany to follow him.  _ That little shit! _

 

“You mistake my purpose, sir. Although I must congratulate you on finding such similar coloring.” He called after him. His words could be about anything, and only had meaning to England and Germany’s ears. Germany turned red. Confederacy settled back in his seat. “Ah yes, I would be happy to play cards with you, Mr. Foley,” he said in response to a quiet invitation.

 

***

 

_ Later that evening... _

 

England quietly closed the door of Albert’s chamber, leaning against the door in defeat. His Queen’s husband was sick and there were no signs of him getting any better. He felt dread settle like an anchor in his chest. Albert had been complaining of stomach pains early in March and they persisted even now. And with that bad carriage accident, where Albert confessed he felt his time was near, England had been stuck under a cloud of unease. The struggle with the cotton industry due to the American civil war had only proved to further stress the Prince Consort. Not to mention the problems happening around the globe. Why couldn’t they just bow down?!

 

Albert had insisted he travel just weeks ago, when news of one of Prince Edward’s affairs became public, and now he was complaining of back and leg pains. The physicians couldn’t figure out the source and Albert continued to suffer. 

 

Rubbing his hands over his face, England blinked tiredly in the light of the evening sconce light. His supper had been tense and he had suggested that Germany spend some time with his former prince while England spoke with Victoria. Now, Germany had retired to his chambers while England bid his monarchs good night. That had been another thing he had not had the energy to do today but had been forced to complete. He had been forced to pull Germany aside and request that he return home. Confusion had etched itself across chiseled features and England had fumbled to come up with a solid reasoning. America’s presence was causing too much disturbance in the court and Albert’s health was of primary concern. 

 

He had even used the Queen consort’s health as the reason he had not brought the other into his bed. It was only half the reason. Anytime England had entertained the idea, his rebel mind had reminded him that America, no matter what he was calling himself, was just down the hall. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it bothered him. The German nation seemed to accept his words, although a layer of uncertainty masked his responses. England assured the other it was nothing that he had done wrong and that he would request his presence at a later date when the time was right. And thus, Germany was set to sail on the next ship headed towards his home. 

 

The day had been an exhausting whirlwind and he still had paperwork to look over. Trudging back to his office England was glad for the quiet that filled the palace. It was late. Unlocking the door to his study with his key england allowed the door to swing shut behind him as he ambled over to his desk. 

 

A note lay on the top of his papers, a script he didn’t recognize. He popped the silver wax seal that had been pressed with the shape of a star.

 

_ Dear Arthur, _

 

_ I believe we got off on the wrong foot. I should have expected your reaction to my appearance, so similar to the one that has caused you so much trouble and pain. I wish for you to know that I am not him and while the circumstances of my “peculiar institution” causes us not to see politically eye to eye, I hope that you can look past the unfortunate circumstances to find that we are similar. You had lamented to Alfred that he was not the boy you knew... and I believe you will find many of those qualities in me. I despair to bring up such unpleasantness, especially after I have already captured your ire, but I ask you to recall the War of Independence. Where did the states that I am made of stand? Loyal to you until pressures won out and harsh injustices made it impossible not to join Union in his insurrection. Consider that in this way, I am closer to your mind than he ever was.  _

 

_ While I’m sure your dalliance with the youngest of the Germans is charming, I’m sure you would find me even more so. I need you as he does not.  _

 

_ With devotion, _

_ Johnny Jones _

 

Tossing the paper back atop the desk England groaned in frustration. He really did not have the time for this. America needed to stop! Leaving his paperwork unfinished England locked the door of his study once more and headed down the hall. Determination in his tired footsteps. His feet hurt, his back hurt, his shoulders. Everything ached. He would deal with America and head to his personal chambers. England didn’t bother with courtesy, as America certainly was not offering him any, and pushed the door to America’s temporary chambers open. “This is enough!”

 

The parlor was empty and the fire banked low for the night. The door to the bedroom yanked open. America, or was it Confederacy, was wearing a nightshirt and his hair was mussed from sleep. “Is a lack of knocking first the fashion in London now? I will need to be vigilant your people do not infect Richmond with such behavior,” came the reply, the accent still strong with the tones of the south.

 

“Enough, Jones!” England barked, closing the parlor door behind him as to not alert the guards. If America still refused to go by his name England would as well. “You left that ridiculous note on my desk. You need to drop it,” he said exasperated.

 

“I only wrote what I know to be true.” He crossed his arms and leaned on the door frame. “This show of irritation can hardly be on Alfred’s behalf as you were so quick to take another into your bed. He and I were suffering,  _ are  _ suffering. Have you no pity?”

 

England stared at him in disbelief. “You are acting this way because I am sleeping with Ludwig!? I’ve been sleeping with him for decades! And why would you care!? You begged and pleaded and then didn’t even show up!” England snapped, his temper heating up. Pushing away from the door he stalked closer. “You have no right to be upset over this!” 

 

“No, I am acting this way because I am at war trying to be free and you have done nothing but treat me like a bed crawler since I arrived. If you want to treat Ludwig like a ten penny whore that’s your business. I came here for diplomacy.” He lifted his chin, glaring at England through his spectacles.

 

“And your delegate took care of it! You didn’t need to play games at me with all!” England hissed. “You show up months after that stunt you pulled and now you act like nothing happened and with all this garbage on top of it all! And stop being such a judgemental prat! Just because someone sleeps with another does not make them a whore! You judgmental fucking arsehole! No wonder no one wants to waste their time with you! You are non committal and act like you still have the Puritans dying in Jamestown! Which if you are going to get on your fucking high horse the Puritans didn’t even care about whores! There were not even laws against it!” England snapped. “Sod off!”

 

Brow furrowing. “Strange that you speak of commitment when you are absolutely faithless unless it suits you.” He walked into the room and to the fire, tossing a log on it and thrusting the poker against the coals to stir them. “Would you like something to drink? If I am going to tolerate your misplaced anger at having been left wanting by Union then  _ I  _ need something to drink.” There were several glass decanters on the mantle and he reached up to take one.

 

“Faithless!” England squawked. “Are you bitter because…” He shook his head “Just get out out of my country as fast as you can, and I don't want to see you back. No letters, no nothing!”

 

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I can leave your palace, but as I told you, I have business here.” He tipped back a glass of amber liquid. “And there is no ‘America’ anymore. Just Union and myself. I understand if you feel the need to mourn for what was or could have been. If things could be different... anyhow, I thought...” He coughed, lifting the sleeve of his shirt up to his nose. When he pulled it away it was red and he immediately covered it up. Setting the cup back down on the mantle he walked back towards the bedroom. “Excuse me.” 

 

England balked. “What have you gotten into?” He followed after America concern overriding anger for the time being. Why did it always happen this way?

 

A handkerchief had replaced the sleeve and the other wasn’t looking at him. “It’s unlikely to stop until it’s all over, I’m afraid. It just comes on from time to time, perhaps there has been a battle... Look, I have obviously inconvenienced you so let me be about my business and I will find another ally. I just wanted the first one to be you.”

 

“You know I can't,” England said quietly, anger draining from him. This was America after all, despite what he was insisting.

 

“Leave me alone, or be my ally?” There wasn’t much light in the bedroom, the candles all blown out the curtains mostly pulled over the winter. What little glow there was from the parlor caught on the glasses on the young man’s nose. 

 

“Both.” England sighed, walking over to take a look. He was contemplating for sending for the court physician. England took one of the candlesticks, magic flaring it to life when the other turned away

 

The flare from the candle, caused the young man to flinch, holding the handkerchief back up to cover the lower half of his face. “Honestly, you do not need to trouble yourself. It... it was my fault that Alfred got cold feet that night. If you’d like to continue being cross with me you can just remember that.”

 

“Shut your damn mouth.” England muttered pulling back the handkerchief to peek. Even if America was having odd effects from his civil war America was still America. Someone he wanted to punch and protect all at the same time. This had to be him, even if there were little details that were off. Just off enough for England to feel unsettled.

 

He was silent, watching England take his chin in his hand and inspect his bloody nose. The bleeding had mostly stopped at that point, leaving behind a little bit of pink where he hadn’t yet wiped it away. “You are...” he began, then paused, reaching up to brush England’s hand away. “I’m fine. I appreciate your concern.”

 

“Still a lousy liar.” England sighed catching America's hand. He stared at him briefly before saying tentatively “Fine... so say I believe you. For a brief moment I'll be in the loony bin with you. That means part of America is experiencing a brief infatuation with me and another is repulsed.”

 

“You think I am repulsed by you?”

 

“You did say you stopped... the other part of America from, well, following through that night.”

 

His fingers closed on England’s. He looked down at the floor, his voice growing quiet. “Because I was jealous. My uncharitable words... it’s because  _ I  _ want to be yours.”

 

England went rigid. “I'm afraid I am misunderstanding you,” he croaked. Impossible. Once again. 

 

“What is there to misunderstand? I wasn’t lying about that night in the garden and I’m not lying now. I could not let Union have you.”

 

England bristled at that. “I am not a thing to own.”  

 

“No,” said Confederacy, displeasure crossing his face. “But why should he get what he wants? I’m sorry that you did not get what you wanted, but...” His fingers reached up and played against the buttons on England’s waistcoat. “That could change. If I were free... I could be many things to you.” 

 

England didn’t move. What was he supposed to say to something like that, what was he supposed to do? It had taken him months, years to even convince himself to just sleep with America. And now that he had resolved himself to treat it just like he always did America dropped his infatuation in his lap. And now this. This... new America wanted the same thing. What the hell was he supposed to do? “I-”

 

“You... should choose me. You won’t regret it.” His fingers slid a few buttons lower.

 

“You don’t want to do that.” England held his fingers in a uncertain grip.

 

“Then tell me to stop.” Confederacy was close, the heat from his body inviting England ever closer. “Recognize me, help me be free, and I can be yours.”

 

“Do...no…” England shook his head taking a step back which was countered by a step forward from America. “No. With your previous comment...and now that. No.”

 

Hurt crossed the young man’s face, but he stepped back, fingers dropping away. “Now I do not understand. What is the impediment?”

 

“You-you’re not you right now.” England shook his head, taking several steps back.

 

“I am not Alfred. I am myself.”

 

“And if that truly is the case, then I don’t know you.”

 

Confederacy sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Then give me the chance to court you. As I said, there is no ‘America’ just Union and me. I promise you I am far more interesting.”

 

“To court me?” England swallowed in uncertainty. It was confusing. It was ridiculous. The rational side of his mind chimed in. But it was a good way to keep a close eye on this odd acting America. If he allowed America to court him then he would be able to be involved and closely watch the American civil war without challenging his Queen’s command. It was perfect. “All right.”

 

Confederacy seemed genuinely pleased. “I shall look forward to it then.”

 

“Yes...of course.” England said uncomfortably. He looked towards the door. “Well, it's late. I shall let you return to sleep and turn into my own chambers. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

 

“Good night, Arthur.”

 

***

 

England sighed, tucked away in a small corner of the Buckingham palace grounds that he had claimed for his own. Here in a small corner, fenced away and now covered with dead vines of roses whose thorns still stood proud. He had smuggled his tea out of the castle to sit at his small table, gazing at the empty flower beds that would not be in bloom for months to come. He wasn’t fond of winter, cold and murderer of roses. The weather even often combated his magic, which since he did not often have chance to escape the court and come hear was futile. England had to deal with the small set of pots in his private chambers. Those never died.  Kept alive all year round, roses blue as topaz gems. They were his greatest treasure, yet he had to abandon them today in the effort to get outside, even to brave the frightening cold, biting winds and snow flurries, just to get out of the palace. 

 

Albert was still sick, which meant Victoria was in a mild state of panic, which meant the children were which meant the court was in an tizzy which meant the nation was in an uproar. That coupled with concerns on textiles, the Trent affair and now Alfred, Johnny... he was becoming frazzled to all, not even on his doorstep but right down the hall. With muttered words of a dead language England coaxed a heat spell alive, sighing in relief as it wrapped around him. What he wouldn't give to share the teacup in his hands, although the tea had gone rather cold by this point, with Tine. England smile, fond of the memories of his friend. A salamander who had taught him all the fire spells England knew, without salamander fae fire would have never come to man and the world would have been a much different place. With a grimace he took a sip of his tea as he brought to his knees to his chest, scrunching onto one half of his bench. 

 

Boots crunched in the snow, signifying that someone had come looking for him. Sighing, England sat quietly, just in case the other person in the gardens was merely out for a stroll. He could see him now, completely bundled up in a heavy overcoat and scarves that completely obscured his face. If it wasn’t for the blond hair peeking out from under the cap and the gait that he knew extremely well, he never would have guessed who it was. Alfred, Johnny, whatever he was calling himself these days was in the garden. England couldn’t help the smile, at least the boy’s hatred of the cold hadn’t changed. He was surprised he’d come outside at all. He’d been wedded to a writing desk beside the fire, writing letters. Unfortunately, whoever he had running his letters was good, none of them had been intercepted. He must have seen him because he changed direction and crunched his way over towards him. “Is it always like this?” he asked.

 

Arching a brow England looked at the boy. “You mean cold in the winter? Why, yes. That tends to happen.”

 

Sitting down on the bench near his drawn up feet, he pulled down the scarf. England hadn’t been able to grow used to the strange shade of his eyes behind the glasses. If Alfred’s eyes were like the ocean, then Johnny’s eyes were like a storm tossing the waves and tinging them with gray. “I understand the seasons thank you, I mean this... it makes you cold to the bone. Which I suppose is fitting, you are worried about him aren’t you?”

 

“Him is a lot of people.”

 

“The Queen’s consort. I heard he was ill. I wager it’s not just a rumor?”

 

“No.” England said quietly, rolling around the dregs of his tea. “It’s not a rumor. He is very ill. The other night it was from his chamber I came in such a emotional disaster.”

 

“I see.” For a moment, England could almost feel America’s presence, but the lilt in the voice still reminded him this was the Confederacy. The young man reached out and brushed some snowflakes off England’s jacket. “Perhaps we could do something to take your mind off of things? You could show me around the city.”

 

“No.” England said firmly. “I am hiding out here because I do not wish to be around crowds of people. I am certain if you are dead set on it one of gentlemen would be more than glad to take you.” 

 

“All right, another day perhaps.” He leaned back on his hands, warmly ensconced in a pair of gray mittens. “I hope that I do not count as a crowd.” He smiled at him.

 

“No. Although, sometimes with your mouth you do.” England drawled, his biting sarcasm ever present. 

 

“Good. If you do not want to go out into the crowd, what would you prefer? I am up for most things. What would please you?”

 

“To sit here. That's why I came out here after all.” England sighed, eyes sliding shut as a gust of wind rattled the dry vines. Dark eyelashes brushed the the skin beneath his eyes, feeling heavy on his cheeks as they they were chilled from the wind. Hiking up his scarf England opened his eyes again to look at the snow flurries running across the ground. 

 

“I suppose I can tolerate it for a while.” Burying his nose back into his scarf, Confederacy stuffed his hands back into his pockets, leaning back against the bench. 

 

A silence stretched between the pair, not quite comfortable, but not terrible. It could have been a lot worse. England was so tired of it all. He kept hoping for a reprieve somewhere in his life and it had yet to show up. Victoria’s words floated to the front of his mind and his heartbeat picked up. He couldn’t lose something that didn’t exist and now the urge was present. Allowing himself to slide across the cold back of the bench England slouched into Confederacy's side, head dropping onto his shoulder. 

 

Confederacy stiffened for a moment, surprised, but then he shifted his arm so that he could hook it around England’s shoulder. He pressed his cheek against the top of England’s head. 

 

Shifting slightly England placed his tea cup behind him as he scooted closer. “You were complaining about the cold,” he said, creating an excuse. It was odd. For a moment, he was certain it was America at his side. He felt the same, smelt the same. England looked up at him, eyes half lidded against the snow. “Kiss me.”

 

Mittened fingers brushed his cheek and then warm lips covered his own. The kiss was slow, tentative. Confederacy’s arm tightened around his shoulder, drawing him closer.

 

Yes, this boy was America. Acting like he would shatter into a million pieces at any moment. The little sliver of terror that had been there when he had demanded that he kiss kim was gone. He smelt, felt and even kissed the same.  _ Still the same old America. _ England’s lips turned up in a relieved smile, kissing him back lazily. _ Good.  _

 

_ *** _

 

Elation filled Confederacy’s chest. He had been worried it wasn’t going to happen, that England wouldn’t get over his apprehensions and want him as he’d wanted Union. Perhaps he understood now that they were the better fit, not in competition over manufactures or control. They could work together, be together. 

 

Confederacy drew England a little closer parting his lips just slightly, inviting the other to deepen the kiss.

 

***

 

Gloved fingers finding purchase in Confederacy’s scarf England took the man's invitation. Twining his tongue with the other’s. Yes, tasted the same.  _ Still America, right?.  _ Yet, England found himself filled with impatience. It was like a carriage with a wonky wheel. Every time they would get going they would lurch a stop and have to start all over. “I said kiss me not put me to sleep.” England protested. Impatience winning out over manners. 

 

“Have you forgotten where I come from?” A smile against his lips, and then the kiss returned and it was if he’d made a study of all their previous kisses and found a way to make him feel it deep down. The arm that had been around his shoulders slipped, settling around England’s waist and pulling him flush against his chest.

 

Reaching up England ran his fingers along the shell of America's ears which were bright red from the cold. This position on the bench was awkward and England wasn't sure how long his back would put up with it. Kissing America back with matched enthusiasm England shivered as another wind buffeted it's way through his hibernating sanctuary.

 

Confederacy flinched slightly, the kiss only breaking for an instant as one hand left England’s cheek to rub at his own temple. “Not so cold now?” he said, pressing another kiss on England’s lips.

 

“You were the one complaining.” England protested, nose brushing against Confederacy's jawline. He  _ could _ take it a step further. America asked for this, before and after his confusion, his changing persona. And England needed a thorough distraction, something to take him away from dying royals and rebellious colonies. “My chambers will be warm from the fires. I'll take you to bed.” He pressed a kiss below Confederacy's ear before pulling the younger into another kiss.

 

***

 

Confederacy’s heart pounded in his chest. One mission would be accomplished. It would be something that Union never got, and it was something that he wanted more than anything else. It would be a form of recognition, he could keep working on making it political fact. “Take me to bed,” he whispered against England’s lips. 

 

***

 

England felt a rush of relief. He had been worried the other would make it difficult and that would have been the last straw. Getting to his feet he motioned for the other to follow. He briefly debated on reusing the same hidden entrance he had used to escape into the grounds, but thought better of it. Something still felt off about this version of America, and he wasn’t comfortable showing the other just yet. Moving towards one of the garden doors, England cast a glance of his shoulder to look at his companion. The other gave him a smile and England quickly returned his gaze forward, set on his destination. Members of the court and visiting dignitaries clustered about the halls, lowering into curtseys and bows as England passed them with the smallest of nods as acknowledgement to their presence. He needed to focus, needed to remain disturbed if he wanted to follow through with his plan.

 

Confederacy followed, and England realized how much of a curiosity the other had become at court. The southerners had been putting their best, most aristocratic foot forward and those that figured they could lean on them about the slavery issue, liked them better. Would someone make a move to stop them to speak about politics? England increased his pace. They reached his rooms without delay and as soon as the door closed behind them England turned. He pushed Confederacy against it, fingers tugging at his scarf. Permission granted, Confederacy shucked his mittens onto the floor and his fingers went to work on England’s coat buttons.

 

“You’re not going to run away this time?” England asked as his own scarf was untwisted, joining Confederacy’s on the floor. It did not take long before jackets and vests followed. “You are going to stay?” England hated how the hurt crept into his voice as the young man’s fingers made quick work of his shirt. That night had been a thorn in his side, a wound that still ached.

 

“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” he replied, voice low, his accent a little thicker. It had been a long time since the Appalachian accent had floated to the surface, the words sounding almost mumbled to England’s ears. He didn’t have time to sort out his opinion on this particular accent when he grabbed him around the waist, practically picking him up off the floor.

 

England wasn't proud of the noise that came from him at the action. Wrapping his arms around America's neck he swore quietly before kissing him again. “Bed?” he breathed.

 

He didn’t need to be asked twice, although they stumbled, a little too busy with each other’s mouths to walk straight. Confederacy fumbled for the door knob, opening the door to England’s bedroom.

 

England almost begged for the other to carry him. He was infatuated with that strength. He knew he had teased America before about taking him against a wall, but now, in England's opinion, he would have preferred it the other way. 

 

“Arthur?” A sharp voice cut through the heated fog of arousal. Pulling away from Confederacy, England stared in mortification when he saw Portugal sitting in a chair with a book. His eyes were wide, the volume dangling from his fingers. In his melancholy over the prince consort, he’d completely forgotten that he’d arrived. That morning, he’d had half a mind to ask  _ him  _ to his bed, take the edge off of the emotion that dwelled in his gut. Staring at the aghast expression that was quickly sliding into disdain, England thought that may have been the more prudent option. However, it was difficult to think about the concept of prudence when Confederacy’s arms were still around him.

 

“Vicente, this is…” England was at a loss for words as Portugal’s brown eyes lit with anger.

 

“You  _ cabrão,  _ this is the height of insulting is what it is!” Portugal interrupted. England bit his tongue at the curse, not sure how to respond.

 

“There is no need for language, we have simply entered the wrong room. Forgive us for disturbing you,” Confederacy said, an attempt to save all the faces involved. The cover wasn’t going to work, England knew. The sexual tension he’d built to fill the void was draining away making him feel empty and exhausted. Portugal put down the book and walked over to them.

 

“I have to admit I was expecting something else from your invitation. Not you parading around your new lover in front of my face! What, Arthur, have you become an exhibitionist?”

 

“Now that’s uncalled for!” England said, voice hardening.

 

“Excuse us, America, it appears my ally and I have something private to discuss.” He reached forward to grab England by the arm.

 

Confederacy stepped forward, knocking Portugal’s arm away. “I can’t in good conscience leave when you are acting in such an ungentlemanly manner.” He braced his posture. England could see the small twinge at the corner of his eye. His head was hurting him again.

 

England opened his mouth to try and calm the growing situation. “How about you stay out of it? You lost your privileges with Arthur when you rebelled against him.”

 

“When your brother drags you into something… I had no choice. You obviously do not understand the complexities of the War for Independence, so I would advise you to choose your words more carefully,” Confederacy said, voice quiet and dangerous.

 

“Brother? Oh, that’s right. You’ve gone mad because of your civil war.” Portugal turned to Arthur. “Honestly? You can’t do better than an insane former colony?”

 

England grabbed Confederacy’s arm before he reached up to punch Portugal. That would have been a poor decision in the best of times and he didn’t want to be patching either of them up. “Jones, I will speak with you later.” Confederacy looked at him, the hurt at being sent away clear on his face. He had the unstable look, the one he would get before he’d grow dizzy. “Go lay down, please. I can take care of myself.” 

 

Confederacy threw one last dark glance at Portugal and then walked from the room. England grit his teeth and turned back to one of his oldest acquaintances. 

 

He was sure the shouting could be heard from the hall.

 

***

 

“All of it's a bunch of rubbish.” England stared at his canopy. The fight with Portugal had gone on for a good hour before he finally threatened the brunette nation with guard removal if he didn’t remove himself. Another hour England spent storming around his private wing, signing documents angrily, the quill stabbing through parchment on more than one occasion. And the next hour he found himself sprawled across his bed covers, drained. It was only then that he sent word for Confederacy to come to his chambers. It really had been unfair to the boy, but England had made a snap decision to separate the two and really had had no time to put thought into it. All he had wanted was a night of attention and look where that had gotten him.

 

It was about a quarter of an hour later when a servant returned. “I’m sorry, Lord Kirkland, but it appears that Mr. Jones is indisposed. The valet said he went into his room and hasn’t come back out. He went to speak with him and came out rather pale and said that he was ill and you should call on him another time.”

 

“To hell with this! And everyone calls me the temperamental one.” England got out of bed. “Inform the kitchens that the special orders I was to have delivered to my chambers are to be postponed until further instructions.” England sighed, sweeping out of the room in a cloud of irritation. Moving through the halls, he was glad that the particular set of guestrooms america always stayed in were practically connected to his own chambers. Knocking, more to announce his presence rather than to ask permission to enter England pushed open the door.

 

The bedroom was dark, the curtains pulled shut against any light. The hangings on the bed were pulled shut as well. The rest of the room was an utter mess, as if a whirlwind had gone through and knocked things aside. Some of Confederacy’s clothes lay on the floor as though he’d hastily pulled off coat, tie, waistcoat. Even his shirt was just laying there. 

 

“Really now. I realize the palace has servants at your beck and call, but you could at least put your clothes in a pile, Jones.” England scowled, picking up pieces of discarded clothing and dropping them on the writing table 

 

No sound came from behind the curtains on the bed. Sighing, England took a matchstick from a box on the top of the writing desk and lit the lamp, casting the mess into an orange glow. Going to the bed, England tugged the curtain aside. Confederacy was asleep on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow. His skin was pale and the dark circles had appeared beneath his eyes. There was a bit of red on the linen of the pillowcase, the sign of another nosebleed. The blankets covered him to his lower back, his shoulders exposed to the air. Something in his sleep caused his brow to furrow. 

 

Leaning against the bedpost England heaved a sigh. Still a child it seemed. An uncomfortable feeling settled in his chest. It really was too complicated, and there didn’t seem to a way to untangle all of the metaphorical threads that were knotted about the entire situation. His own conflicting emotions aside, England watched boy sleep, a sense of resolution seeping through his brain as he considered the last couple of days. 

 

He needed to end it, the game that it had all become. Pushing off of the post England leaned over, tugging the blanket up to Confederacy’s chin. He would speak with the other in the morning.  

 

A light supper, something to drink and an evening of paperwork before turning in himself seemed to be the best course of action.  _ Funny,  _ England thought briefly. How everything could be so chaotic and one simple thing could line everything up and put it in perspective, like a strict governess. The concept of putting a stop to it all had been mumbling at the back of his mind since the opium incident. But to make any sort of final decision pulled at England’s heart. He didn’t consider himself an emotional man, so he found this whole situation disturbing. 

 

***

 

The battlefield was clear in his mind. Men dead in the snow, gray and blue. How many of them were killed by miniet balls and how many from the cold he couldn’t quite be sure. Men frozen to their stations, but already devoid of reusable items: coats, belts, shoes. Left where they fell, because there wasn’t time. He felt sick. He wanted it to stop. There was no stopping it though, he could only march forward in the snow trailing after his troops. Was he wearing blue or gray? 

 

Waking with a start, he stared up at the top of the canopy bed trying to remember who he was.  _ I am the Confederate States of America.  _ He had to repeat it a few times in order to really focus on it. He was here in England for a purpose. He’d hoped... well, he’d hoped that England would recognize him, take him into his bed, but after yesterday afternoon... his pride was hurt. He rubbed at his face. It didn’t matter, it only mattered that England didn’t go anywhere near Laird’s shipyard until it was done.

 

Pulling himself out of bed he got ready for the day, moving slowly from the pains that had settled in his joints. He found a servant in the hall. “Where is Lord Kirkland?”

 

“In his parlor, Mister Jones.”

 

With a deep breath, he entered England’s rooms.

 

England was completely absorbed with his task at hand. Tucked up inside one of his large armchairs, the blond had pulled his feet underneath himself so he was completely within the chairs confines. Reading glasses perched upon his nose the empire's attention was completely devoted to the small book in his hands. Green eyes slid over word on the page as he reached for the small steaming teacup that sat amongst a spread of tea time treats atop a silver tray.

 

Confederacy cleared his throat and waited for England to acknowledge his presence. 

 

“Yes, Jones?” England asked not looking up.

 

“I wanted to apologize for my sudden illness last night. I did not intend to offend you”

 

“Things happen.” He licked a finger, turning a page. “Bygones be bygones.”

 

“I was wondering if we could go riding today?”

 

“You seemed rather ill last night. Should you really be up and about in such excitement?” England asked, reaching blindly for his teacup. Grasping it with his fingers he picked it up, still keeping his gaze down.

 

“Poor night?” Confederacy asked, sitting down in the chair across from the other.

 

“I checked in on you last evening. You didn't seem to well.”

 

“You were in my rooms? I don’t... when?” Panic fluttered in his chest. Had England witnessed anything that had happened before he passed out?

 

“You were sleeping. After leaving quite the mess and not tucking yourself in properly, I might add.”

 

“I’m sorry you had to see that... I wasn’t expecting a visitor. I figured you would settle things with Portugal and have no need of me.”

 

“Yes. Well, assumptions make an ass out of you and me it seems,” he drawled. 

 

“If you were in my rooms why did you not wake me? My bed is as warm as yours.”

 

England stilled, tension lining his shoulders. “You did not look well. I already told you as such.”

 

“You could have made me feel much better.”

 

“I did not retire till late, so I feel it would have been counterproductive.” He flipped the pages, his eyes not moving over them, no longer really reading what was on them.

 

Confederacy sighed. “You are unfair.”

 

***

 

“I don't have a single clue what you are referring to.” England took another sip, silently praising himself on his self control. He couldn’t look at him, it may be too much of a test.

 

“Don’t you? Ambassador of Eros? That’s what the others call you don’t they? I would think someone with that reputation would understand how he is unfair.”

 

England’s fingers clenched his book tightly, biting the inside of his cheek. “Do. So. Enlighten. Me.” He risked a glance at the boy, seeing the other fiddle with his glasses. 

 

“You act like I have scorned you... have you forgotten my war? It’s the strain of a battlefield I should be on. But I’m here because I need you. What do you want of me?”

 

“I didn’t call for you this morning. And I am not acting like anything. I was taking my tea when you arrived with a proposition and I advised against it.” England glared back down at his book. 

 

Confederacy huffed. “Fine, I will go into the city. I have some things to discuss with some individuals from the textile mills. Some were very interested in meeting me.”

 

“That does sound like a promising plan. As long as it's completely legal.” England nodded, eyes almost leaving the book again to look at the man across from him. Setting his tea down on the table he turned another page, willing himself to keep up the indifferent facade he had decided would be the best approach that morning. It was hurting more than he had expected.

 

Confederacy stood up circling around to the back of England’s chair. “Perhaps when I return you would be willing to spend some time with me? It will be lonely without you.” He leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing England’s cheek.

 

England flinched away from Confederacy’s touch. It would do nothing to help his resolve. “Perhaps. A quiet game of chess, or to pick something from my library.” He said quickly. 

 

“I’ve gotten better at chess,” he said, his breath ruffling England’s hair. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of England’s head.

 

“I am sure you have.” England shrunk slightly in his chair “I shall inform some of the royal children of our match. They shall certainly wish to watch.”

 

“I look forward to it,” he said, releasing the back of England’s chair and making his way towards the door. He glanced over his shoulder when he reached at it. Smiling, he walked out of the room.

 

As the door shut England slammed his book shut, rubbing at his eyes. He was going to have to be blunt. Confederacy wasn’t getting any of his signals. One would thinking refusing to look at him and flinching at his touch was enough of a sign. Apparently not. Dropping against the back of his arm chair he groaned. This was going to be more difficult than he thought. 

 

***

 

_ Later that day... _

 

Pleased was a bit of an understatement for how he felt. England’s people were going to push him for recognition of his own sovereignty. He would get rid of Union thanks to cotton. The cotton that Union was stubbornly blockading was choking the textile industry. Regardless of their scruples, the British needed him.

 

“Alfred.” He frowned, even England had at least conceded to calling him Jones. Turning, he looked.

 

“Ireland... Seamus. What can I do for you?”

 

“You can tell me why you’re importing my people to grow your army!”

 

“That would be Union. If you’ll excuse me, I have business with Arthur.”

 

“Where is Colleen?”

 

“I assume she is in New York, I have no idea what Union has done with her... and beyond that, were you not wishing she would fade away? As Union is wishing I would disappear? I’m not going anywhere and I doubt she is either.”

 

“When Arthur finds out you are brewing rebels...”

 

“He’ll what?  _ I’m  _ not the one doing it.”

 

“You might be in the habit of conveniently forgetting, but Arthur isn’t the only one who built you up.”

 

“He is the one that has what I need though.”

 

“Aye, power. Be sure you don’t break yourself with it.” Ireland turned on his heel and walked away. 

 

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Confederacy walked into England’s drawing room. There was a small crowd around England who was busy on a chessboard with a young boy who was staring at the pieces looking very serious.

 

“Now don't hurt think too hard, Leopold. You're still learning.” England smiled as the boy cast a helpless look at his older brother Arthur, who was now eleven, who was standing behind his chair. Waiting patiently as the two boys conversed England looked up when Confederacy entered the room. The smile on his mouth became strained.

 

“It looks like the fun started without me.” He’s met several of the royal children not long after he’d first arrived, but they all acted rather wary. No doubt, Confederacy believed, of their mother’s attitude about his war. No matter, he thought. He pulled up a chair and took a measure of the game board.

 

“I had not expected you to...return so soon.” England watched as Leopold made a move and he quickly countered it. “Perhaps you would wait elsewhere and I could bring the board to you?” he said quietly.

 

Something wasn’t right and Confederacy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Then he stood up, “I suppose I do have some correspondence to deal with. Call on me when you are ready.” 

 

“Of course.” England smiled and cast a glance at his personal secretary. When Confederacy inquired with one of the servants later that day, it appeared England had filled his schedule with other business in order to avoid him.

 

***

 

“I may have been too ambitious with all I wanted to accomplish.” England groaned, dropping onto his bed with a sigh. It was just before supper and he was exhausted. Staring up at his canopy, England pushed away the guilt that prodded him in his chest. There was no other way. A hard knock sounded on the door leading to his bedroom and he started in surprise. He hadn’t even heard any noise from his parlour. “Enter,” he ordered. It must have been James, his secretary, with the supper menu. 

 

“You are avoiding me and I want to know why.” England looked up from his spot on the bed to see Confederacy leaning against the door frame.

 

“I had a lot to do today,” he stated, stubbornly looking back up at his canopy, fortifying his resolve.

 

“Yet, you always made time for me before.” His footsteps sounded on the carpet. Now he leaned on the bedpost.

 

“Just busy today it seems. Lots to do, you know.”

 

“Arthur... please. What is wrong?” 

 

“Nothing is wrong. I've just been busy.” He sighed.

 

Leaning up from the bedpost, Confederacy sat down on the bed, more of a drop. He’d looked unsteady on his feet. He leaned on one hand, watching England who didn’t look back at him. “You call me the shit liar. That one was more bald than an old man.”

 

Digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, England fell silent. He really didn't want to lie but he didn't want to tell the truth either.

 

Sighing, Confederacy shifted, stretching out and resting on his elbows by England’s side. “You said we could play chess. If I win, you have to tell me. If you win, you can have whatever you want.”

 

“...fine.” England sighed. That was fair.

 

***

 

Getting up, Confederacy made his way out to England’s parlor. He picked up the chess board and its pieces, settling them on the bed by England’s side. He shrugged out of his coat before sitting back down, unhooking the bottom few buttons on his waistcoat so that he could sit more comfortably. “It’s your home so you can be white.”

 

“How considerate.” England sat up, staunchly keeping his gaze on the board. Reaching out England moved his first pawn. 

 

They each took their turns, not talking.  **_I don’t like it._ ** _ Quiet.  _ **_Something is going on._ ** _ We’re just playing, damn it!  _ **_I hope he throws you out when he wins._ ** He squinted, trying to stay focused on the chess board, not the voice in his head. It had to be nothing more than the echo of the mind he once shared with Union. He watched England’s moves and tried to plan how to counter them. “Check,” he said.

 

England sighed making his next move, casting a quick glance at Confederacy. “Check mate.”

 

Confederacy stared at the board. Blast it! He’d missed the piece that England had set up behind him. He shrugged and leaned back on his hands. “That’s that, then, what do you want as your prize?”

 

“I,” England swallowed, his face looking strained. “I want you on the next ship for America. Tomorrow morning.”

 

“What?” His voice incredulous.

 

“I know you heard me,” he said, quietly.

 

“No! I’m not leaving.” It would take more than a lost chess match to get him out of here. If England didn’t want him, fine, he could do without that, but he needed British assistance if he was going to survive!

 

“You said whatever I wanted!” England countered.

 

“You can’t possibly want that!” He reached over the game board and grabbed England’s wrist. “How can you want to send me away?!”

 

“Because there is no reason for you to be here!”

 

“I need you to defeat Union!” he said, voice rising. “I need you to get my independence! And if that wasn’t reason enough... I... I love you. I want to be with you!” The words had slipped out before he could stop them. He felt the heat flush through his face at the look England was giving him. Pity. He wouldn’t accept it.

 

“No.” England shook his head, trying to pull his wrist free. “It's a brief, misplaced infatuation. I am familiar compared to the rest of the world so you are pinning your affection on me.”

 

Arthur... Damn him... “If that’s what you believe I have certainly been foolish.” He released him and stood up. “I’m not leaving for I have important work on behalf of my people, but I won’t trouble you anymore.” His voice broke at the end and he hurried away, not wanting England to see the hurt on his face.

 

***

 

Placing his head in his hands England swallowed thickly, emotion choking him. This was for the best. It had to be for the best.  Laying on his side England pulled his top blanket over himself. The thought of supper made him nauseous, maybe he should just go to sleep. That sounded like a good plan. 

 

***

 

Confederacy stumbled back to his room, feeling the pain begin to overwhelm him. The fog was creeping back in. Afraid to sleep, he bundled up and went into the city. He would see what was in the works and how much longer he needed. If England couldn’t love him... he would still give him what he needed. 


	18. Higher and Deeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England doesn't know how much more he can take with the impending death of someone he cares about. His relationship with America is on the edge of a knife. Will he fall off the edge?

_December 13, 1861_

_London, England_

The last weeks had been miserable. Other nations had come and gone with their business yet America... Johnny... whatever he was calling himself was still there, much to England’s chagrin. Things were getting worse politically, yet he persisted in his presence. Silence had continued between the two of them and while their interactions had been limited, sometimes they had been required to dine together. Those meals had been, awkward, tense, as if both of them were on the cusp of starting some fight. Prince Albert wasn't getting any better and as England got up that morning his stomach pained him. He was terrified what that meant. He could not lose a monarch at a time like this. Albert couldn’t leave him alone with the mess. Albert couldn’t possibly leave Victoria.

“Don’t leave me, your Highness,” he said to the man he knew was dying. Albert took his hand and told him to be strong.

***

Confederacy straightened the papers on his writing desk. Things would be in place by spring. Could he risk leaving before it was done? Every time he considered it he grew anxious as though he could predict some catastrophe would befall the project before he could see it through. There was battle after battle back home written on the ache in his bones and the blood-stained handkerchief that could never be far away. At least England wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. It was cold and uncomfortable, but he would persevere to push Union out of his borders. Glancing at the mantle clock, he frowned. When had it grown so late? Turning down the lamp, he made his way to his bedroom. There would be time to finish things tomorrow.

***

_December 14, 1861_

Between the sobbing of his family and the murmuring of the papal audience it was all too loud. Victoria was distraught, a mess, and so were the children. Understandable. Even the priests in the room were slowly losing their practiced facade of emotional distance. England found himself to be numb, though. His emotions mounted, as he was certain that the news was taking the court by storm. The news would ripple through the staff and from there the streets of London, catching like wildfire as it spread throughout the country. Men lowering their hats, women hiding their faces in aprons and sobs muffled by hands. The entire country would be in mourning, even foreigners. Foreign courts would even be affected, he had been loved by so many people. The bells would soon throb throughout the air, just in case anyone was unaware. The Prince Consort, Albert of Saxe-Coburg, was dead. 

Watching the royal family become immersed in their grief, England bowed himself out from the darkened room and into the hall. He needed to maintain an appearance of unshakeability. It would do nobody any good for him to break down. Especially Victoria. He needed to remain steady. 

He was surprised when he saw many members of the court and dignitaries waiting outside the door for news. With a shake of his head, England watched as their faces crumpled. Striding past the crowds and down the hall, he held onto his composure. Albert had been so supportive of everything he had been struggling with, and had been a great help in helping steer his strong headed Queen. What was he to do now? Tears began to burn in the back of his eyes as he walked down the familiar halls. He just needed... to not be alone. 

 _Of course I arrive here, the last place I should be,_ he thought sarcastically. The rooms of the last person he wanted to see. Yet, before his internal attitude could catch up a wave of sadness crashed over him. Knocking on the door to Confederacy’s, no... he wouldn’t think of him that way tonight, it was America’s parlor, he pushed inside, heading for his room, no longer able to stop the hot tears that began to roll down his cheeks.

The door opened, America standing there in his nightshirt. Confusion crossed his face for a moment, then his eyes widened at the sight of England’s tears. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation as the door opened wider and his arms came around England, holding him to his chest. He rested his cheek on the top of his head. “What happened?” He almost sounded normal.

Unable to form a response, he escalated from crying to sobbing. England grabbed at the back of America's clothes. His weeping grew in intensity, moisture draining from him, soaking into America’s bedclothes.

“Oh,” came America’s voices from above his head. The bells had begun to toll signalling Albert’s death. England shuddered in grief and the arms around his shoulders tightened, the grip shifting until he found himself being lifted, cradled. Next thing he knew he was being tucked into the sheets of America’s bed, the spot still warm from where he’d awoken him. 

Rubbing at his eyes England was glad for the sudden intrusion of his personal space and guidance. He could have tucked himself away in a drafty corner of the palace amongst dust and cobwebs for all he cared. As long as he had a moment to let these emotions run their course. Hiccuping he grabbed America's wrist as the young man made to move away. America blinked at him, his face missing his glasses, eyes as blue as they always have been. He seemed confused, but he settled down beside England, drawing him into his arms.

Instinctively, England turned into America, a fresh wave of emotion catching him off guard. Once again England grabbed fistfulls of America’s nightshirt, sobbing in an ugly manner. It seemed that the situation was intent on seeing him a mess until he succumbed to sleep because of it all. America rubbed a hand up and down England’s back, trying to soothe the rigidity that gripped him while he cried.

***

The next thing England realized was that the lights pouring through the cracks in the curtain were that of late morning. Blinking slowly through eyes dry and sore he swallowed thickly a sore throat and thirst making their presence known. He had obviously slept for a good long while but he felt anything but rested. 

A weight settled on the edge of the bed, “Arthur... do you remember where you are?” 

That voice. It was the right one for once, not the mix of lilting tones that sounded much like his own but twisted in the halls of Richmond and the mountains of Appalachia. “Alfred.” Looking up he stared at the other. “...you left.”

“No, just called for something to eat.” He climbed back into the bed, laying down by England’s side. He bit his lip, but then touched England’s cheek, brushing his fingers over the lines on his face. His glasses were still off, his hair mussed and sticking up instead of the smooth expanse that England had grown used to, his accent fluctuating. England felt the uncomfortable pang that he’d felt in years past when he’d looked at his face. “How do you feel?” America asked.

“Like shit,” he said truthfully.

“Do you want to eat?” America’s hands were warm through his shirt as he ran his fingers over his arm and back as if checking for an unseen wound. “You could get cleaned up, I have a shirt you could wear if you’re uncomfortable.” 

“Not really.” England sighed, closing his eyes in exhaustion as he realized something. America was back to acting normal. “Alfred... it is you? Not the other one? He’s around here somewhere...” The last thing he wanted was for the two to meet... but if the other was here, how was Alfred in the room? He didn’t want to think about it.

America looked down, fingers catching in the buttons of England’s waistcoat. Confusion crossed his face. “He’s probably hiding from me. He’s never faced me in battle, directly, anyway. I guess I must be here for something... maybe because your prince was ill. I wanted to see you?” He sounded unsure.

“Please, I don’t want to talk of politics right now.” England sighed wincing as he opened his eyes to look at America. 

“All right, I’ll... do my best.” He smiled at him, his true one, the one England held close in the darkness of his days. “If you want to talk... I’ll listen.”

“No,” he admitted. “I just want to lie here forever and sleep. Warm and with no thoughts.”

“Then come here,” America said, wrapping his arms around him again. “I’m amenable to laying here...”

England didn't protest, eyes closing again in exhaustion. Albert had been thrilled by the southern accent that had been floating around Buckingham Palace in the wake of Confederacy and his politicians. He had never gotten to hear it before. Edward had been particularly charmed by the ladies’ accents from the south and places like New York. Now Albert was dead, what was he, England, going to do now? How was Victoria going to handle it? She was enamored with him the moment she laid eyes on Albert all those years ago.  

***

America’s fingers idly carded through England’s hair, feeling the strands. He wasn’t soft per say, America wondered if it was from all the salt water on the ocean. This was safe territory, comfort and holding. He could stay like this. **_Why am I here? I don’t know how I got here... I’m across the Atlantic. I was in the dirt outside D.C..._** He pushed the thoughts away. The last time he’d been in a bed with England... he couldn’t think about that right now. He felt raw, and he knew England was likely worse. Pushing could break them both.

Coming closer to America, England sighed, relaxing against him. America could feel the pain in his body. The people were in mourning. England himself was filled with grief. He could hold him through it. England’s hurt had kickstarted something in him. He’d been feeling broken, trapped. Thinking of something else, saving England from his grief, it was enough to distract him from his own... even if that grief was overwhelming.

“I’ve missed you.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. They were as simple as breathing. The truth of them caught in his chest. He couldn’t start crying too! He had to be strong.

England couldn’t offer a verbal response. America knew him better than that. He was there, he had chosen America in his time of need. That was enough. Burying his face in America's shoulder, his breathing soon evened out into sleep.

America snuggled closer, just wanting to be lost. Soon, England’s quiet breathing took him to sleep as well.

***

When England woke again it was due to the knocking on the door. Judging by the soft clattering noise that sounded from just outside the door and the little bit of light pouring into the room it was afternoon tea. Rubbing at his eyes, although still sore, he felt better than he had earlier. Looking at America, England allowed a small smile to lift his cheeks. This boy was annoyingly inescapable. Yawning, he looked to the door. While food still held no interest for him tea did. Casting another glance at America, England leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the younger's mouth. That was the final one. This was the one England had control over. 

His fingers twitched at England’s back, but it was easy for him to pull out of America’s grasp. He climbed over him and America turned onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow.  With stiff legs England moved to the door, opening it to see the large, full, tea cart rolled right up to the door.  He really did love his personal staff. 

England hadn’t even gotten tea into a cup before America thrashed in his sleep. He began to shout out, “No...” 

England’s shoulders sagged. He would need to take care of America first, then attend to the royal family later it seemed. Putting his cup down he shuffled back to the bed. “Alfred.” He shook the boy’s shoulder. 

“Stop... no... you can’t...” He jolted, pushing up from the pillows as if the bed itself was going to attempt to drown him. He stared at the bedsheets, blinking, looking completely bewildered at the bedcovers. It was as if he’d forgotten where he was. The hand on his shoulder made him flinch, pulling away to see who was responsible. “Shit... I must have been dreaming... I shouldn’t have slept...” 

“Hush, it was only a dream,” England said quietly, staring at him. “Tea?”

America sat up, rubbing at his face. Sweat had broken out across his skin, making him shiver. “Is there coffee?”

“In London? At afternoon tea?” England sighed and left the room to summon another servant. As he pulled on the bell chain in the parlor England mulled over his current situation. He had been distraught, which was to be expected since the death of a friend had literally just happened. And to think that it was America out of all people that he had run to in his emotional wreckage. This wasn’t good. And now it seemed that the other was having problems again. A wave of exhaustion threatened to knock England down. He didn’t have the energy to take care of someone else at the moment, but as the older one, especially with their history it seemed the most appropriate that he did. “Ah, Roger. Good on you for coming so quickly.” England gave a small smile to the man who poked his head into the parlor. “It seems Master Jones would like coffee for afternoon tea.” England shrugged his shoulders at the servants bewildered look. “You know how strange Americans are. But he is a visiting dignitary so we shall cater to simple, albeit strange requests.” England sighed as Roger nodded and hurried out to fulfill the order. 

Running his hands through his hair England sluggishly headed back to the bedroom. “Coffee will be brought up.” 

“Thanks,” America said, looking England up and down. “Are you okay? I’ve never really seen you like that before...”

“Yes, quite unsightly,” England admitted. 

America blushed. “No one looks good when everything has fallen apart. I mean, I don’t exactly look my best do I?” He gestured at his face. He was still ashen, if he were human he’d look like he belonged on a deathbed. Reaching out he took England’s wrist, drawing him down to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I don’t think that you'd be fond of the first answer that came to my mind,” England said lightly, sitting down.

“You look better now, still sad though.” 

“As articulate as ever I see.” England rolled his eyes yet he felt a sense of relief. The boy was sounding like himself. Perhaps... was it possible that his first instinct had been correct. That Confederacy was a crutch. That they were in truth, the same? He couldn’t push away the feeling that the other was lurking somewhere, jealous of America’s presence beside him. 

“I’ll send a letter to Mr. Emerson, perhaps he’d be more articulate.” He gave him a lopsided smile. “I was... I guess, a little surprised to see you. I know you’re unhappy with him, er, me. I guess both of us.”

“I can certainly leave if that would be preferable.” England bristled, his emotions tender at the moment. That hurt. America spoke as if there were two. Confederacy did, as well. Was it truth?

“No, that’s not what I meant at all! Come here.” 

England gave him an odd look. “I am here.” He crossed his arms. “I’m sitting on the bed aren't I?” Tears of anger pricked at the back of his eyes.

Distress crossed America’s face. Instead of waiting for England, he scooted down the bed and wrapped his arms around England’s shoulders, pressing his forehead against the back of his head. “You’re right, you are here. I’m here, too.” 

The sudden embrace shocked England, but he allowed it nonetheless. It felt nice. “Alfred…”

“Hmmm?” he said, not releasing him.

England slumped back into the embrace. He was tired and this was very comfortable. Shifting to the side he was happy that America moved his head, allowing him to rest it against his shoulder. Looking up at the canopy his mind nudged him, this was not beneficial to his plan to remain platonic with the American nation physically and emotionally. It was extremely detrimental to the whole thing. Yet, just as fast as his logical mind was to step in and condemn him, his emotional side was quick to counteract the punch. Albert had just died, his entire country was in mourning. It was healthy, beneficial for him to seek comfort and America had been the one he had subconsciously sought out, over Spain, France, Portugal and other nations that he had known for much longer and were in his palace at this very moment. America shook slightly, as though he were afraid.

Turning his head, England pressed a closed mouth kiss to America’s cheek, completely at home with the situation  A strong knock on the door to the parlour shattered their little bubble of peace and Rogers voice made its way from the parlor, couple with the clicking of shoes against hardwood. 

“I bought that coffee you ordered for Master Jones.”

“Thank you.” England called out “That will be all!” England kept a smile in his voice while giving America a dirty look.

A blush crept over America’s face at the look in England’s eye. “What?”

“Tea time it seems, as your coffee has now arrived.” England pulled away, getting to his feet to pad across the thick carpet to the door. He stopped, blanching when he realized something. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. 

“Well, you like tea time, right?” America walked past him, his nightshirt just barely covering his knees. He grabbed one of the cookies off England’s tea tray and poured a cup of coffee, taking some of the milk and sugar cubes. 

“Yes.” England sighed, unbuttoning his waistcoat. That would explain why he felt so off when he woke up. Well, not the whole reason, but that could have been factor. Fingers stalling on the last button his mind wandered. Should he really be in here? Having tea while the royal family was in mourning. Sure, he was terribly upset, but after his, probably hours, of sobbing he just felt numb and tired. 

America watched him. “Why don’t you sit down. Do you still drink your tea the same way? I’ll make it.”

“No, I'm not an invalid. I can handle my own cuppa. Thank you very much.” 

“It’s okay to lean on me... I don’t mind. It’s... kind of nice actually.” America settled down on the couch, cradling the coffee between his hands. “To think that I can still be leaned on.” His voice sounded sad, an unfamiliar noise. 

Casting a look back at the bed, England removed his waist coat, folding it over the handle on the cart as he attended to his tea. Using his meticulous attitude towards the hot drink he used the precision to keep his thoughts in order. He probably looked a wreck, bless Rodger for saying nothing. What did America mean by it being nice? England didn’t lean on anyone, last night had been so out of order. 

America didn’t say anything, just drinking his coffee, watching England. He stood up, putting his empty cup on the tray and walking into his dressing room. He came back with one of his extra shirts. He offered it to England. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

England stared at him as if it was going to bite him, but reached out and took it nonetheless. “Thank you.” Leaving his tea cup on the trolley he backed into America's private room. “Just a moment of privacy.” 

Shutting the door England rested his head against it with a sigh. He could barely focus on his own grief, much less whatever strangeness was happening on America’s end. Fingers reached up mechanically undoing the buttons of his shirt and then his trousers. The cloth made no noise as piece of by piece he undressed and the items fell to the carpet. Shrugging into the nightshirt England gaped in horror as the shirt dropped to his mid calf, and it hung about him like a large grain sack. It was huge! 

Green eyes found the wash basin on the vanity and scooping up his clothes he made his way over to the water. Peering into the pitcher England was elated to see fresh water, the servants must have changed it out while they were sleeping. He needed to look at the books and up their wages. Dropping his clothes on the vanity surface, he grabbed the pitcher and poured water into the bowl. It was lukewarm at least. Must have had it boiling when they brought it in. Dipping the cloth into the water England made quick work of wiping himself down, scrubbing at his face to try and rid himself of the positively dreadful state he most certainly was in.

“Arthur?”

“Hm?” Lowering the wash rag he walked towards the door. 

“Just checking on you,” America said, lifting the cup of coffee to his mouth when England appeared. He couldn’t quite hide the snicker at the sight of how big his shirt was on him. “It’s almost like when I used to steal your shirt before you left.”

With a scowl England bit his thumb, arching a brow at the younger before turning back to the wash basin. America laughed, following him into the room and settling onto his bed. He flopped down onto his stomach, resting his chin on his folded arms.

Dropping the cloth back in the basin England stared at his reflection, futilely smoothing down stray hairs. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He certainly felt like it. Heading back to the trolley he grabbed his tea, cradling it in his hands as he headed back to the bed.

Making room for him, America yawned. “What are the odds you’ll take a nap with me?”

“Making bets is ungentlemanly except in cubbing or on a good jockey.” England sniffed, settling cross legged on the bed, taking a sip. 

“I thought cards were suitable as well?” America scooted closer to England’s side. 

“Why would you bet on cards? You are terrible at them.” England shook his head downing his tea rather quickly. 

“I’ve gotten pretty good at poker. It’s my own version. Anyway, if things turn out we should have a horse race. I would win.” 

“Do you even post?”

“It’ll be cross-country, long distance.”

“That didn’t answer the question.” England set his cup down, scooting under the blankets.

“Of course I can. But you don’t have to in the western saddle I’ve made. The horses aren’t just for pulling wagons and looking pretty.”

England rolled his eyes, turning his back to America as he pulled the blankets over his head. 

“If you’d gone riding with me, you’d see.” His words slipped out, accent sliding again. His breath catching as if he’d surprised himself. His body went rigid. 

“The last time we had the chance you didn’t go out to the cabin with Edward and I.” England rolled onto his back, peering at America from beneath the blankets as the boy continued to scoot closer. “You want inside the nightshirt to?” he asked flippantly. 

“I’m just cold,” he said.

“All right.” England turned to face him, his scooted down position making him eye level with America's shoulder. At least the blankets would warm fast. Eyes sliding closed, he pressed his nose against America's shoulder, the broadness catching him by surprise like it always did. “Don’t try and squeeze me to death in your sleep,” he mumbled.

“I won’t.”

“Uh huh.” England muttered. “I need collateral.”

“Like?”

“Mn, I don’t know,” he said, quietly. 

“You could hold me back, then squeeze me back if I get too tight.”

“Your strength is near monstrous, you'd snap me in half before I even had the chance!” England opened one eye to glare at him.

“What then?”

“I told you... fine… you… if I think that you've squeezed me too tight I get to keep calling you Alfred. No matter what.”

“Why wouldn’t you be calling me by my name?”

“Alfred...” England sighed, peering up at him. America seemed genuinely confused by the statement. Perhaps they weren’t lying, or didn’t think they were lying. He thought of the reports that had come into Albert’s desk before he died. Stories of battles so monstrous that they were shocking the world. It would addle any nation’s mind.

“Let’s not talk about it... I don’t...” America mumbled. “Let’s just not think for a little while, okay? I’m here. You’re here.”

“All right. Not thinking... something you may be familiar with, but not I.”

“Try it for today,” he replied, ignoring the jibe. 

England heaved a sigh. He was exhausted, but maybe he should go make sure things were being done around the palace and court properly. He lifted his head to glance at his clothes on the vanity. He would need to call for a fresh set. 

“Don’t go."

England looked at him “I should be taking care of things...”

“It’s unlikely you’d get anything done.” England looked at him sidelong, America’s accent was doing a strange slip slide again. “I won’t make you stay... but you can if you want to. You don’t have to talk to me. I don’t even have to lay near you.” He shifted away, loosening his hold, giving England more space.

“You can be such a fucking prat sometimes!” England hissed, burying his face in the pillow. 

“What? You want me to make you stay?” he said, resuming his previous hold on England. 

“It's nothing like that” England sighed glaring at him. “But here you are acting like you're walking on eggshells when I'm the one who reached out to you in the disgraceful state I was in last night!” His cheeks turned red, a mix of anger and embarrassment. Staring at America, England's will began to crumble. That morning had been the last time. He had promised himself that. But... with everything... and America finally acting normal. One more time wouldn't hurt right? Grasping the boy's face England stared at him hard. Why did it bother him so?

***

America searched his face, a headache beginning to buzz at the back of his skull. **_Not yet, not yet, please..._** “I know I’m not powerful enough yet,” he started. **_And I may not survive this war..._** “But, I want... I’m allowed to want to protect you, right?”

“You can want whatever you want,” England said, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to America’s mouth. 

The kiss surprised him. Jolted him to his core. The feeling that something was missing was deep in his stomach. He wasn’t altogether, he knew it. Despite that he pressed closer, fingers tangling in the extra cloth at the back of England’s nightshirt. **_Don’t stop, Arthur…_**

England drew away for the briefest of moments, but then seemed to decide on something. He pressed closer, closing the distance between them as he hooked a leg over America’s hip to shorten the distance even more. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t asking for anything more than closeness. America pulled him closer, the small noise of approval warming his skin.

America was content to let the kiss be, tiredness aching in every bit of his body. More wasn’t frightening because of England, but the feeling that something was waiting in the wings. That the emptiness that made him ache would take him down into it. He felt like he was drowning and England had pulled him up for air. He had the upper hand for the moment, but there was no way of knowing how long it would last.

***

That would certainly be a distraction from the pain. England deepened the kiss. America had been asking for months and now England technically did have him in a bed. Thoughts of remaining firmly platonic melted away as his original desire returned with force. One and done. “Alfred...” England murmured, moving the kiss to along America's jawline, fingers sliding down his back. He would get the hint. He was exhausted. But this was the perfect chance.

England’s fingers tightened on America’s nightshirt, tugging at it, the fabric sliding over the back of his legs. England’s fingers found the bare skin of his lower back, sliding downwards. The skin of America’s hip beneath his thigh, felt burning hot with all the attention it drew. Want settled into his chest, sending a shudder through his limbs. America let out a long breath. “Do you want me?” The second half of the sentence shifted, the vowels drawn out, southern. 

“Yes,” England said quickly as America gripped him hard and arousal ran through him. It had been a stupid thing to do. He had been feeling numb, raw and now he was feeling everything again. Including sorrow. England swallowed a sob as tears rolled down his cheeks again. _Shit. Shit._ “Ignore it,” England ordered when America froze. _Stupid! Stupid!_

He didn’t comment, but one hand came to touch his cheek, fingers becoming wet with his tears. A soft kiss. “It’s all right.” 

“Please ignore it.” England swallowed. Wrapping his arms around America's neck he held on tightly, the muscles in his leg flexing, holding on to America as tightly as he could. 

“Arthur...” His name on America’s lips sounded unsure, even as he hooked his fingers into the crook of his knee, dragging him even closer. His name sounded all wrong on the other’s tongue.

Choking down another set of sobs, England pressed a hard kiss to America’s mouth, grabbing one of America's hands and dragging it to his lower back. America didn’t speak, followed the motion, pressing him against the blankets, his weight on top of him.

Blinking in surprise, England was pleased at the response he received from America. ‘Alfred!” he gasped as the younger pressed against him. “Fuck!” Wrapping long legs around America’s torso he tried to pull his wrist free from his grasp, trying to ignore the tears that wouldn’t stop. 

“Why are you calling me that?” 

England stiffened “Alfred?” he croaked as lips moved against his neck. 

“What? It’s not... where am I?” America leaned forward and his forehead pressed against England’s shoulder. “Give me a moment, it’ll pass.”

“No.” England shook his head as the stress began to tighten his chest again. “No more. I can’t do this right now, Alfred.” He hiccupped. America’s odd behaviour brought disturbing memories to the front of his mind. America wasn’t truly himself right now so could he really say yes?

Releasing England’s hand so that he could smooth it through his hair, America said, “Let’s not talk then.” He leaned up, kissed him, pressing their bodies together.

England gasped, arching sharply in response _I said no!_ England yanked his head away with a gasp, “I said no more!” Panic rose in his chest. _I said never again would this happen! Sand, everywhere, much stronger hands. It burns! I can’t breathe!_

America sat up leaving England free to disentangle himself. “What’s wrong?” 

Swallowing England took a few deep breaths “No more.” He shook his head, covering his face.  America was acting like he didn’t even know himself, if that was the case then who was he sleeping with? He couldn’t do it. He knew exactly what it was like to not have consent in such matters. And with America acting in such a way could he really do that to him? Was it truly, was America completely aware? He promised he would never do that to another nation once he became an empire. He couldn’t risk this moment with America. 

“Did I do something?”

“Can we just go back to sleep?”

America blinked at him. “Yes, of course.”

England wrapped his legs around him again, arms looping around his neck. The atmosphere completely different, a slight shake in his limbs.

He settled back down, holding England and stroking him lightly on the back. America was quiet, just holding him, feeling shaken from the reaction and the strange feeling that had come in between them despite their physical closeness. Counting his breaths before the tears could start again again England willed himself to calm down and it didn't take long before sleep came over him again.

“I love you.” 

England wasn’t even sure he heard it. The phrase beginning in one voice and ending in another.

***

_Two weeks later..._

_Buckingham Palace, London_

“Alfred!” Frowning, Confederacy turned to look at France as he approached him. Resisting the urge to make haste elsewhere he waited for the Frenchman to catch up to him in the hall. He’d been on his way to his parlor to work on papers. He’d been considering making a trip to England’s study. They weren’t talking much during the day, but the fact that England had been in his bed every night must be a good sign. Even if nothing had happened except that first day.

“I would appreciate it if you would call me by my proper name, John.”

France stared at him, resting one hand on his hip as he looked down his nose. “I’d heard you weren’t yourself, I suppose it’s true. How come I don’t get to call you Johnny? I hear that’s what the others call you.”

“Only Arthur and Matthew. Alfred does, but I’ve never given him permission to be so familiar.”

“Well, I’m adding myself to the list. If you weren’t acting so sly I would have been able to speak to you before now.”

“I would actually like to speak with you regarding recognition and breaking the Union’s illegal blockade against my interests. And yours, considering I cannot ship you any cotton.” 

Brow furrowing, France took him by the elbow. “Yes, come with me to my sitting room and we can speak of many things... Johnny.” Confederacy resisted the urge to tell him not to use his nickname, but, then again, France could prove a viable ally. He’d done so for the United States, why not the Confederate States? He had the cotton, after all, for France’s textile mills. 

He could tell that France was put off by his inquiries about his clothes and the comments on the weather, but likely because Alfred would never think to ask such a thing. He really was a fool. He was directed into a chair near the fire, settling in and accepting the glass of wine that France poured. “Would you like to discuss business?” he asked, after the silence between them began to stretch.

“No, what I want to talk to you about is personal.” 

Curious. “Personal? In regards to... Surely, you aren’t going to blame me for Alfred bothering Matthew regarding troops. It’s not my fault he’s become interested in Canadians crossing the border to help me.”

France’s mouth thinned, his fingers tightening on his wine glass. “I’m afraid that your dealings with Mathieu are not the topic of conversation today. I need you to tell me your intentions towards Arthur.”

“My intentions? What is he, a blushing girl at her coming out?”

“Would you treat a girl at her coming out the way you are treating him?”

Confederacy frowned. “How dare you imply that I am being roguish with him.”

“Aren’t you? Is this about the cotton? Or is it about something else? If you are, as you say, the Confederate States of America, are you toying with England to chagrin the United States of America?”

Confederacy was quiet for a moment, anger spreading through his chest. “I assure you my motives are hardly so petty.”

“Then what are they?”

“Who are you to ask my intentions? Do you make some kind of claim over him?”

France chuckled. “He and I were lovers for longer than you’ve existed. We’ve fought so many wars against each other that we already fill several volumes of history. I would say I have a claim, I’m surprised you would fail to acknowledge it.”

“Ancient history.”

“Not quite, but close. Considering that you have sent me several words asking for use of _my_ navy to break Alfred’s blockade, I’ll ask again and assume you were not trying to evade my question. What are your intentions with Arthur?”

Looking away, Confederacy took a long drink from his wine glass. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my intentions are honorable.”

France’s eyes went wide. He made a little sound of disbelief. Confederacy frowned, what did France find so unbelievable, that he could love England? Or that he had said so? “If that is the case then this is a far bigger mess than I had thought.” He drained his wine glass, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “What are your expectations?”

“Expectations?” asked Confederacy, confusion crossing his face. 

“High expectations about your relationship with Arthur. I want to know if you have those as well and gauging by the look you are giving me, they might be the same.” 

“As I have stated previously, it is none of your business.”

“To think Alfred had you inside of him all along. Fascinating.” France leaned back in his seat, eyeing him as if he was a particularly curious animal in Arthur’s Royal Zoo. “As far as your ‘business’ in regards to the cotton goes, I have some words to share with Arthur on the matter before I will make a decision.”

“All right.”

“Good day, Johnny.” 

Confederacy stood up, nodding his head to France and going back to his papers.

***

England stared at his reflection in the mirror as he finished dressing. Black again. They had even been dressed in black on christmas. The whole town was swathed in it. The response to Albert’s death had been as near in volume, or more, than the death of Princess Charlotte. Victoria had taken it as hard as he had been expecting. She was refusing to show herself in public. Crying that no one was there to call her Victoria now and that Albert’s death was, “like tearing the flesh from my bones.” 

Smoothing down the buttons of his waistcoat he glanced at his pocket watch. He was to have breakfast with America... no, it was Confederacy again. America was gone, disappeared from the palace like a ghost. They had barely seen each other since Albert's death since had had been attending to duties that Victoria was currently unable to handle. And the few times he had exchanged words with the other, the cocky assertions were gone. Maybe he could find out what ever was bothering him over a hearty breakfast. 

Confederacy was, as always, the spitting image of America. England could feel like he’d slipped through a looking glass into a mirror world. He didn’t like it. He stepped into the room after the servant announcing his presence.

***

Confederacy scanned the headlines of the newspaper. There was plenty of articles in favor of his cause. This one, however, the other was just as fond of mocking him as a folly that will be stamped out come summer. He pursed his lips and took a large mouthful of his coffee. Hypocrites. If the headlines were not about the turmoil in Parliament over the continued concern that Union would be stupid enough to declare war on England, it was about the trouble brewing in the textile mills. By next fall... they would be in trouble if the blockade was not lifted and he wasn’t able to ship cotton. He sighed, tossing the newspaper down on the breakfast table. A knock came and a servant stepped inside. “Lord Kirkland to join you, sir.”

“Thank you.” He stood up from the table and straightened his morning coat. “Thank you for joining me, Arthur,” he said when England stepped inside.

  
“Of course…” England said quietly, taking his seat across the breakfast table.

Confederacy fiddled with the edge of the newspaper, piling food on his plate. The thought of being without food was one he didn’t relish. Union was already working to destroy any supply lines... He shook his head. He couldn’t be distracted. England could fix all of those problems if he wanted to do so. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you during the day. How is Her Majesty?”

“She's... doing as well as can be expected.” England said non committedly, slathering a piece a crumpet with preserves. 

“I see. And how are you holding up? The new year appears to be ushering in many things.” _Like idiot comments from Union’s senators and Secretary of State._.. He made a show of moving the newspaper. To see if England would say something. When he didn’t take the bait, he grasped for another topic of conversation. “Have you spoken with Francis lately?”

“Yes, I have.” England took a much larger bite of his creation than was polite, he chewed slowly, staring at America with an arched brow. 

“He just made mention to me that he is awaiting your thoughts on the matter of my independence. In fact, I am as well, but I suppose we should not speak business at the breakfast table.” No need to mention that France had inquired as to his intentions... although perhaps England would find that amusing.

“My thoughts don't really matter in this case now do they?” England said after swallowing. Taking another bite he took his time before continuing. “Her Majesty said we are neutral, therefore, I am neutral.”

“I suppose as long as she retains that position that is the case.” He figured she couldn’t possibly continue with that position come summer. He just had to wait. The ‘project’ would likely be concluded by that point as well. “I wondered if you would be so kind as to show me the Royal Zoo today? We’ve always talked of going. The weather is turning out well today.”

England froze, choking slightly on his food. Swallowing hard he stared at Confederacy. “Yes, _Alfred_ and I have talked of it. Are we Alfred today now?” England said tightly.

“No, I’m not Alfred.” He sighed. “I know you don’t quite understand the nature of how I formed... but please attempt it.” He frowned, not understanding how England could still care about Union when he was doing his utmost to threaten him! 

“Well, if you aren't Alfred then I technically never invited you,” he said haughtily. 

“All right,” he said, giving England a charming smile. There had to be a soft spot somewhere. “Arthur, I would like to go to the Royal Zoo, would you take me?”

“I think I'm busy,” England said immediately.

“Please?” He tilted his head so he could meet England’s eye. Union had filled the man with so much ire, it was no wonder it was taking time to break through that shell. “It would be a shame if I had to ask someone else to accompany me.”

“I certainly think you would do fine.” England tossed America a smile so fake that even Germany’s attempt would have been more realistic. Picking up a scone he cut in half with a bit more force than necessary. “Did you not tell me a couple weeks ago that there were plenty of men willing to speak with you. You know since you're encouraging them to disagree with the Crown.”

“Is that you want? Leave me to my own devices? Perhaps in that case I’ll go to Southampton and see if the USS _Tuscarora_ is still causing trouble for the _Nashville._ Another fist fight would certainly liven up my morning.” He leaned back in his seat and picked up his coffee.

“And I'll let the guards know you are being a disturbance of the peace and have you and the rest of the delegates on a boat out of here destroying any chance at negotiations. That fight on _my_ docks was unseemly.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to spend time with me. It would certainly be choosing a side if you dismiss my delegates and leave Union’s in place. I heard that his ambassador has been frozen out of London society due to that article his son wrote.”

“Or perhaps I shall just assign you a guard since you seem hell bent on making my life difficult as it seems to amuse you. Maybe you and “Union” have more in common than you realize,” England replied.

“Unfortunately, that’s true as we were the same person.” The cup went back down on its saucer with a clink. “Or do you still not believe me?”

“You have yet to provide me with sufficient proof.”

“You do realize that Union wants to kill me? Why would I risk being in the same room? At least a battlefield is honest.”

“Yes. battlefields can be brutally honest. Very telling.” England said, bitterly. “And if you say what you have been saying all along is true then I suppose you have quite fond memories to back up that statement.” 

“Yes, of course. I remember at the house in Jamestown when you were trying to fix the roof and accidentally caught yourself with the hammer. I’d never been so worried, but then you let me sit in your lap and told me everything would be fine.” He took a deep breath. “I remember everything that happened in my lands.” 

England cast him a hard look “I was thinking more of you leaving me in a puddle of mud, practically telling me you had grown tired of me. But maybe your hierarchy of importance is vastly different from mine.”

Confederacy was silent for a moment. “That moment broke my heart. If you would recall, my people were reluctant to leave you... once it seemed independence was inevitable... it’s not untrue that Virginians led the charge, but I wasn’t the one who started it. It was New England, Alfred, who did that to you.”

England shook his head, turning his attention to his tea.  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I suppose you’re unjustified anger at me keeps you warm enough,” he sniped, before he could think better of it. “Although, it’s unfair that you hold me accountable for something I did not control. If you want to get back at him for that... I can provide that opportunity. I have seceded from him, it is a second American Revolution and this time you can be an ally, not a foe.”

“Absolutely not!” England said sharply, slamming his teacup onto the table with a crack. “And you suggest that ever again I will ban you from my country and from ever being within 100 yards of me.”

Hurt spread across Confederacy’s face. This was not going the way he’d planned at all. Everything was going foul, the tide turning against him on the international stage due to England’s refusal to act.  “Why did you agree to breakfast if you just wanted to berate me? I have not wronged you. I came here with honest intentions and you have treated me with nothing but disdain and suspicion.”

“You are the one who brought up uncomfortable topics!”

“I think you were the one who wants to muddle through the past when I was talking about the future.” He sighed. “I was hoping that you would spend the day with me. Excuse me for trying to find something to lift your spirits.”

England sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Falling silent for several moments, he sighed again “Fine, I will take you to the Royal Zoo.”

“Thank you. I look forward to it.” He smiled, settling back into breakfast. 

***

England shook his head “Honestly, I think I could give you a bag of sweets and you'd entertain yourself for hours like you did as a child.”

“I will never say no to something sweet,” he said, picking up the jam and adding a liberal amount to the piece of toast as if to demonstrate. “I’ve been developing some pastries, lots of powdered sugar. I could make some for you.”

“Something you learned from Francis?”

“Well, borrowed the idea I suppose. I have to put the French influence in Louisiana to good use.” 

“French influence to good use? That's something that should never be in a positive sentence together.”

“Well, that’s why I made it into something American.” 

England opened his mouth to make another sarcastic comment but thought better of it, taking a sip of tea instead and responded with a hum. Rolling the tea around in his cup he cast a glance at the servant standing by the door.

“Is something wrong?”

“Not in particular.” 

“I suppose there is something to be said for silence.”

“Oh, and that is something you are now familiar with?” England turned to look at him. The odd personality changes were fast becoming irritating. It was confusing. He’d heard both America and Confederacy insist that they were separate, two different people. Yet, America had been in Confederacy’s rooms that night. He’d held him when he was grieving Albert. Then he was gone, this doppelganger in his place. England was quickly becoming exhausted with it all. He stared down at his cup. 

He had been more than ready to sleep with the lad that day. Yet, America had started acting strange again right as it was all about to happen. It shocked him. If America was like that, not himself, couldn’t even decide who he was, was it really consensual for him to sleep with him? England did not want to have that weight on his shoulders. Stuff like that really affected a person. The incident had brought back terrible memories of his own experience. And that was something that he didn’t wish on anyone, though he knew plenty of nations who had experienced it. 

“I’ve always understood silence, I never claimed to practice it.” Confederacy offered him a self deprecating smile, voice jolting England out of his dark thoughts.

England shook his head. “Could've fooled me.” He fought down a smile. When he was teasing, playful, he seemed almost familiar.

“You know me always a surprise.” 

“That's one word you could use.” England drawled.

“How would you describe me then?”

“Uh..” grabbing his pocket watch England clicked it open. “Oh look at the time! We should get moving.”

***

_That afternoon..._

“..And the zoo did not open to the public until 1847, just a couple years after the royal menagerie was added to the collection. They had to receive a royal charter before they could and it was George IV who gave one to the Zoological Society that made it possible, ” England commented as he lead Confederacy through the zoo. Families and courting couples alike stared in marvel at the animals on display. He watched as the mouths dropped open on foreigners and children squeaked in obvious delight. He couldn’t blame them, even being here so many times that he had lost count, he was still caught up in the awe of it all. 

“They’re all amazing, Arthur!” Confederacy said, peering into one of the exhibits that held turtles. “I should bring you this turtle I found down in the bayous, we found one that was several feet long. Don’t let it get a hold of you though, it has jaws like a vice!” He smiled down at the little reptiles paddling in the pond.

“I think I shall pass,” England said warily, nodding to a group of women that walked past watching them as they whispered to each other behind hands.

Confederacy turned around, leaning on the edge of the exhibit. “I suppose you would want something more charming... I could bring some deer? The white-tails are lovely. There are also some amazing birds. Did I tell you the story about Florida?”

“Everyone loves a good stag and his pretty mate.” England nodded. “You have told me many stories of Florida.” he shrugged. “Don't slouch.”

Confederacy straightened up. “Okay, how about one about Georgia? We were deer hunting and just as I was about to bag the biggest stag you’ve ever seen, I took a wrong step and next thing you know I’m knee deep in quicksand!”

“So those glasses aren’t for show?”

Blinking at him, Confederacy unconsciously reached for the arm of his eyeglasses. “It feels a bit funny without ‘em. Worn ‘em ever since the Alamo.”

“Interesting,” England commented, walking towards another exhibit. “Odd things happen to nations when there’s violent strife.” 

“You don’t like them?” he asked, following along and peering into the cage when they stopped.

“I said nothing of the sort.” he commented lightly as they approached an animal similar to a zebra in look. Taking note of the confusion on America's face England offered the information that was on the plaque just ahead of them surrounded by people. “She's a Quagga. A type of Zebra from the plains of South Africa. When they talk it sounds like “kwa-ha-ha” hence where they got their name. As you can see she has brown and white stripes just at the front of her body, unlike her relations which are stripped all over and black and white. The Dutch have almost hunted them to extinction, and I have not been able to get any successful breedings here.” He shook his head. 

“Maybe they need the climate in South Africa? Isn’t that man Darwin going on about how animals have changed over time to fit their natural zone? I read his book, he seemed to learn a lot from breeding fancy pigeons. And his trip to the Galapagos, of course.”

“And if I returned her there she would be killed for her coat just like her relatives.” England sighed. 

Confederacy was quiet. “Have you seen them, the big animals in Africa?”

“Yes.” England nodded. 

“I want to see them some day. I’ve seen a few elephants when I visited Asia, and P.T. Barnum has set up a museum of wonders in New York... but I reckon it’ll be a long time before I ever visit New York. Union...” He paused. “What’s the most amazing animal you have seen?”

“The lion of course,” England said immediately.

“Is that why you put one on your crest?”

“Not really, no. English medieval warrior rulers with a reputation for strength used the moniker "the Lion”. The most acclaimed case is Richard I of England, known as Richard the Lionheart. Lions are constantly depicted in English heraldry, either as a symbol on shields, themselves, or as supporters for their cause. Keep in mind the expression "Lionheart" alludes to an incredible, capable person. Additionally, lions manage prides, similarly as lords govern courts. Lions were given to a few English rulers, as tributes and blessings from different nations, and are housed in this very zoological display, which used to be at the Tower of London. The Barbary lion in particular.” England stuck his hands in his coat pockets.

Confederacy smiled as he listened to him. “I haven’t seen one, yet.”

“Because they are one of the exhibits closer to the back.” England lifted a shoulder. “We will get to them.” Grabbing his walking stick, he headed for the next exhibit, his gloved hand pressing into the small of Confederacy's back to guide him along.

“Will you show me your favorite?” he asked.

“My favorite is not something we have here,” England said with a sigh of relief.

“What’s that?”

“I'm not telling you.” England sniffed.

A roll of the eye and a smile. “Fine, keep your secrets then.”

“I shall for I am not fond of one of your favorite pastimes. Mocking anything related to the arcane.”

Confederacy tilted his head. “I will admit that there are mysteries in this world. Ghosts are nothing to be trifled with.”

England twisted around to look at him, eyes wide in surprise narrowed with suspicion. “Now is not the time to jest about such things.”

“I do not jest, strange things happen in the woods and forests... spirits and such.”

“Hmm...you're not feeling ill are you?” England leaned into Confederacy's personal space peering at him suspiciously. Since when did he have any belief in the occult?

“No, I actually feel fairly well today.”

With a sound of disbelief England stepped back. “Well, let's keep walking I suppose.” 

The rest of the afternoon continued on with the same type of easiness that both nations had been craving. There was no hurt present, no confused lust, no out of place arguments. Their normal arguments and barbs littered their conversation as it always had. There were times when England felt a small spark of success when he made the American laugh. 

Families, couples and groups of school children went about their own business, barely if at all acknowledging the pair, which was more than fine for the two nations as they were completely wrapped up in their own conversations. Both men stayed firmly away from any topic that would bring up the civil war and the predicament that Confederacy said was true and England still refused to completely acknowledge. The pair also staunchly strayed away from any topics of war. England still hadn’t told the other that he would be leaving in two days even though Confederacy was staying for diplomatic reasons. Last month, just before Albert had passed, England had sent troops to ally with France in the second French-Mexican War. And he would be joining not only France but Spain as well on the sea. Despite the fact that he and Spain had withdrawn it was time to get involved again.

“Oh, there are the lions!” Confederacy’s exclamation broke England out of his brooding thoughts and he watched as the younger joined the crowd of people clutching at the edge of the exhibit. England felt a smile lift the left side of his mouth as Confederacy gestured back at him, hand extended. That was for later he decided. Despite the urge to take the other’s hand and have the man pull him into his grasp, England shook his head in mock admonishment and headed towards the exhibit fence to look as well. 

“I didn’t think they would be so big... I mean I knew they were probably bigger than a bobcat, but a catamount too?”

“Of course they are bigger.” England rolled his eyes. “King of the Jungle and all.” 

“Impressive,” Confederacy replied, glancing sidelong at England.

England watched the lions laze around in their exhibit, it was late afternoon. If he didn’t have such an outing or so much paperwork he would be doing the same thing. People began to drift away from the exhibit. “I am leaving in two days time for Mexico,” he said, deciding it might as well be that moment. 

Brow furrowing, Confederacy looked at him. “Mexico? What business could you possibly have with him?”

“I had troops over in Mexico in October, yet since December I sent troops over with Francis and Antonio to aid in Francis’s war against Jorge. It’s time I go check in and see what else is to be done.” England sighed, as if it was the most troublesome thing in the world. 

“Well, then, at least he won’t get any ideas about retaking California or New Mexico territory. Unfortunately, Union has claimed California, but I plan on taking New Mexico.” His fingers brushed England’s sleeve. “Perhaps while you are in my neck of the woods you can take a gander at Union’s illegal blockade? See for yourself what he is doing to me.”

“I am going to Mexico to oversee my troops and then leaving,” England said tightly the muscles in his shoulders tightening.

“Well, if you should accidentally see Union’s scurrilous behavior towards me it would not be remiss.” He sighed. “Let’s not talk about unpleasantness. If you are leaving in two days I would rather they be in kindness.”

“I agree.” England nodded a stone of guilt settling into his stomach. He hadn’t completely told Confederacy the truth, although, in a way, he had. He was indeed leaving Mexico. But there was no way that he could tell Confederacy... America... whoever he was... what he was going to do after. 

***

_Late January 1862_

_London, England_

“Dammit, Alfred!” England threw the morning paper down onto the breakfast table, the servants standing at their positions casting each other uneasy glances. He glowered at the paper as if there was some way that America would feel his anger across the ocean. He was supposed to have  gone to Mexico and dealt with the problems there. It had been the perfect time for a distraction yet now he found himself unable. His country was facing a cotton famine. England’s unwilling gaze fell onto the documents stacked beside the newspaper, their contents coupled with the newspaper had soured his stomach against breakfast. 

The cotton industry had boomed in the years of 1859 and 1860, producing more cotton that would be sold and the nation had been forced to cutback. There was a vast amount of raw cotton flooding the warehouses at ports. As a result prices lowered and no one seemed to have a desire or need for raw cotton during those years. And now due to the Union blockade the prices were skyrocketing. Large amounts of his people had been unemployed as factory owners were unable to purchase large quantities of cotton. Prosperity into poverty overnight.  

Running his hands through his hair in exasperation as he thumbed through the pages. Relief communities were being established, but he was afraid that there was only so much that they could do. Soup kitchens, industrial classes, sewing classes, and more were all being set up by churches but he wondered how long it would all last before the nation of England revolted as well. 

How long before Victoria decided that Great Britain could no longer be uninvolved in the American Civil War?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you've been enjoying it please leave us a comment or a kudo! We love reading all of your comments! These chapters have been pretty intense and so much fun to write!


	19. Unspeakable Loss, No Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England is torn due to the calamities that are befalling his industries as the American Civil War rages on and the Union blockade of the South keeps the cotton his textile industry is reliant on out of his hands. The Battle of the Ironclads stoke a fire under European curiosity about the new warfare being invented on American soil. Confederacy takes a gamble. A battle is fought. 
> 
> America has everything to lose and England doesn't know what to do to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a head's up. There is some depiction of the Battle of Antietam in this chapter and a lot of political wrangling drama. It's a bit of an emotional roller coaster as we get deeper into the Civil War.

_20 March 1862_

_Stalybridge, England_

“Lord Kirkland careful!”

“Wh-” England barely had time to process the statement before he was yanked down to the street, rocks cracking the stones where he had been standing just moments before. Stalybridge, England was a disaster. Screaming and shouts filled the area. England stared mortified as men were slammed into the ground by police, women and children spitting and shouting at the officers as they carried out their duties. The cop that had pulled him out of the way of thrown stones pulled him along towards his carriage, the cabbie threatening anyone who got too close to his horses as they vocalized their panic. Civilians and police surged around him as arrests took place and the riot only seemed increase in anger. 

Seven thousand people were left unemployed by the cotton famine and it would only get worse. The shrieking and the shouting seemed to fade away into a dull roar as bodies jostled him, slamming into him violently despite his guard’s efforts. Staring past the writhing riot, green eyes took in the houses around him. Vacant, boarded up, some of the seven hundred and fifty houses that had been abandoned in ‘The Panic’. He felt his throat tighten, it was becoming hard to breathe. His people were running out of options. 

“My Lord, you must get out of here!” the officer shouted, shoving him to the carriage door. The cabbie heaved himself to his seat as England scrambled into the carriage, the officer slamming the door shut behind him as the carriage was pelted with rocks, rotting produce, and spit. The carriage lurched violently forward and all the noise came back to England in a rush. Nausea threatened him and England steadied himself against the walls of the rocking vehicle. The sounds of anger and protest began to fade away into the background as the raced away. 

There was no way that Victoria could refuse involvement in the American Civil War, not when riots threatened to become the norm. American newspapers had been dropped on his desk more than once with headlines that compared New York to that of Britain. It was infuriating. He had wrote to America in protest of such articles only to be met with the silence. In turn, he had written to Canada, telling him to pass along his message. It was certainly the slavery issue they bounced off of, but Britain had banned slavery in 1833 so he had no clue what they were standing on. The American nation was a disaster. The northern states staunchly stood against slavery yet refused to outright ban it, afraid the middle states would side with the southern states and the southern states argued that slavery was a large and vital part of their economy. All of this disaster he had made sure to mention in every one of his letters to both brothers. The returned correspondence had shaken him, much as the racing carriage he was now in did. Canada had not seen America for months. Unable to find him. None of this boded well for the world at large. It was a concern for England, and an emotional ledge of terror for Arthur. 

 

***

 

_England,_

_Late March, 1862_

“Every man put down their bloody hammers!” England's command reverberated through the shipyard, above the crowds of men hammering iron into wood. The repetitive clunking sound of nails piercing wood meant for ship hulls was replaced with that of the clanking of armor as England entered the shipyard flanked by the Queen’s guard. In his pale right hand he clenched a series of papers. “There is to be no more work on wooden ship hulls!” he ordered and a cry of outrage and disbelief swelled around him. It made sense, first the textile workers were out of work and now the shipyards were being put to a halt. 

The angered cries of men and seagulls mingled together as the guard stepped into a circle around the island nation. England peered at the report in his hand. Finally they had received the news on the Battle of Hampton Roads, a battle on which every European navy had been observing with bated breath. It was done and it was going to change history. For the Americans it was the focus on the fact that the result was a strategic union victory and tactical Confederate victory to the navies of old, it revealed so much more.  Pushing aside the two soldiers standing in front of him England raised the paper above his head. “SILENCE!” his voice boomed over the crowd.

 The result was instantaneous and several eyes landed on him. “We finally have word on the Battle of Hampton Roads, or as many know it The Battle of Ironclads, the Union blockade remains in affect, which is devastating news.” He paused as a surge of anger and despair rippled through the yard. “However!” he continued “ This battle has brought to our attention that it is time to once more advance our ships! New naval warfare is upon us! I told you all to put down your hammers not because you are to be put out of work, but for the fact that your work is changing! England is to build a new type of warship! No more will our warships have wooden hulls! We will have ships of iron! Monitor it shall be called! Small heavy guns will be mounted to fire in all directions on all our ladies! Rams will be incorporated into her hull! We will remain the navy that is to be feared. Englishmen will take this new form of ship in steed and make it even better than the blasted ships of those Americans!  Designs are being sent shipwright to shipwrights across the nation and by the dawn new ship bones will be touched by light! Are you men with me!?” he roared and the response was deafening. Men, hardened by years of physical labor, broad shoulders and calloused hands pumped fists full of determination into the air with shouts of agreement. 

A smile erupted across England’s face in response to their own excitement. This was his people in their true spirit. Not the riots in response to the cotton famine, the downtrodden looks of those worried about the American civil war. Soon, someday his people would get back on their feet like they always did. This was just the beginning. 

 

***

 

_June 18, 1862_

_At Sea_

“Oy! Union ship off port bow!” the warning bellowed across the deck, and despite the hour, with the moon high in the sky and the stars challenging its light for shining rights. 

“Then let's get this lady up top speed, lads!”

“Some days I miss the old ships, a lack of ropes and pulleys, but the speed of that engine!” England stood at the helm with the Royal Navy officer, clutching his cap as the wind buffeted against them. 

“Ay My Lord! This lady is ours! Low profile, shallow draft and high speed!” The officer grinned, his expression lit with adrenaline. “With her steam engine, she uses the smokeless anthracite coal. Gets far ahead of the bloody yankees and their attempts to starve our men in the factories back home!”

“How fast can she get?” England grinned in return, clutching the railing as his fingers itched for to help the men on deck. Men went about their duties with skill and confidence. This was not their first run against the blockade and their movements spoke as such. 

“Seventeen knots My Lord!”

“That is bloody brilliant!” England grinned. Cold wind and sea water spray slapped against his cheeks as he leaned over the railing to peer at the churning water below. By God did he miss the ocean. To think that this was the way he would be getting into the United States today, on a blockade runner bringing goods in and out of America despite the attempts to stop it. Sometimes, bringing soldiers and ships. He watched the reflection of the moon ripple, disrupted across the water's surface before looking back to watch the Union ship futilely chase after the steamship. It was America’s - the Union’s, England reminded himself - fault that he was in such a predicament. The Union had established some three thousand-five hundred miles of blockade. That's why these ships had been built, in his very own shipyards. A flash of irritation lit his chest. Alfred had been in Britain while those ships were being built and had said nothing of it. He might as well have lied to him. His fingers clutched into a fist, relaxing when the captain spoke again.  

“My Lord if I may ask... why are you dressed in such a manner?”

“Well, because I need not be a Lord for the duration of my stay in America.” England straightened, looking down at his clothes. Gone were his clothes of bright colors or mourning black, instead he was dressed in neutral browns and simple clothes. A matching messenger bag was slung across his chest, containing writing paper, inks, pens and sketch papers. Everything that a British correspondence journalist carried on his person on the daily. “I am here at the Queen's order to observe, learn, and report back in support of the British welfare.” he looked at the ship chasing them, growing smaller as it lost them. “There are things that a journalist hears from the people, inns and taverns, whispers and conversations that I am much more privy to when I dress like this than when I dress in my regular wear.”  He leaned against the railing, pulling the cap from his hair to stuff it in his bag. Closing his eyes he relished in the air that pressed his hair back against this skull. 

He was in the back in the colonies, just outside America, once again on a ship, alone and trying to figure out what was going on in strange land. Blinking against the watering of his eyes as he opened them against the chill wind, he sighed taking in the small lights that shone from the port lanterns. This needed to be figured out quickly. He needed to find America and get to the bottom of all of this. Great Britain was beginning to suffer and that was an offense he could not stand. 

 

***

 

_July 1862_

_Paris, France_

“Are you sure that I cannot persuade you?” Confederacy said, settling the crystal cut wine glass onto the table. He couldn’t help but admire France’s finery, decadent thought it was. He glanced over to see the older nation settled in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other. France raised a brow.

“I made an agreement with Arthur. I’m sure my embassy has made the situation quite clear to your government.”

“To Alfred’s government, perhaps. The soldiers that have joined my army don’t seem to have such situational opinions,” he said, wandering closer to where France sat.

“Do Arthur’s men?”

“They seem to be quite fond of me.” Confederacy smiled, small butterflies fluttering in his stomach. England would come around to his point of view, surely. “However, I seem unable to move him to declare for me.” He pushed his feelings deep down into his stomach. He needed to be objective in this transaction. France understood other sorts of negotiations.

“That will be difficult, so I would suggest you do not get your hopes up for European support.” France glanced at him, chin lifting to meet his eyes as Confederacy leaned on the arm of his chair.  It was the perfect moment to play his hand. He caught France’s chin in his fingers and kissed him. If he couldn’t get him with the promise of cotton, perhaps there was another way? Old memories welled up in the back of his mind as he was transported to being so much younger, England’s rebellious colony, getting his first kiss in a room not unlike this one. **_What in hell are you doing?!_** He ignored the voice in the back of his mind.

France put a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him. Confederacy caught himself on the sofa. Heat of embarrassment flashed into Confederacy’s face.France looked away from him and ran the back of his hand across his lips. “I am not open to such congress with you, Johnny.”

Anger quickly replaced embarrassment. “Since when are you not open to that sort of thing?”

“Recently.”

“Matthew,” Confederacy said through gritted teeth. “That simple minded idiot who can’t even choose between me and Alfred? He can’t possibly have more to offer than I do.” The words came out in Creole French. France’s eyes widened and Confederacy grinned at his surprise. “Did you forget that Louisiana belongs to me? I’m part French, too, if that’s a requirement to gain your favor.”

“You should not say such things about your brother.” France stood up, walking over to where Confederacy had straightened himself in his seat. He casually leaned on the arm. His expression was stern and Confederacy refused to back down. “Despite how highly you consider yourself, you forget that I am far older and have the military resources to crush you, especially if Arthur joins me to put you down.” He grabbed Confederacy’s chin, fingers hard on his skin.

“From what I understand, your governments are considering the opposite choice. It will be Alfred that breaks.”

“And do you truly believe two Americas will be greater than one? The boy I knew had an ambition to be an empire.”

“The boy you knew is dead.”

“That does seem to be the case.” France pushed him away. “This conversation is over. When the foolishness you have perpetrated is done perhaps we can speak again as the family we once were.” France walked away from him, his shoes whispering across the fine carpet. Confederacy fumed in his seat, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep the vitriol from spewing out. His mouth tasted of copper.

“How dare you judge me for what I’m willing to do for my people.” 

“Some of your people, you are hardly fighting for all that live within your borders.”

“Says the nation that has abolished slavery three times in the last seventy years since you keep revoking abolition.”

France turned a glare on him. The Europeans all seemed to underestimate how much he paid attention to them. France opened his mouth to reply and was cut short by a knock on the door. “This better be urgent,” France snapped at the still closed door.

“A Matthew Williams, sir, he said it was extremely urgent.”

“Send him in.” Confederacy didn’t move, his irritation ratcheting to a level so high that he felt the headache throb behind his eyes. He leaned forward, his head in his hands as he heard France greet Canada.

“Is he here?” Canada must have just seen him, because in only a moment his brother’s cool hands were on his cheeks tilting his head up. The room felt too bright so Confederacy squeezed his eyes shut as his head throbbed again. Canada’s fingers felt good on his forehead. “How long has he been here?”

“France? I would assume he’s always been here.”

Canada sighed. “I wasn’t talking to you, John.”

“Why can’t you ask me?”

“Do you know?” 

Confederacy squinted at him. What sort of question was that? The answer to it, however, seemed to slip away. “I... I don’t know.”

“Francis?” Canada asked.

“A few days. He wanted to negotiate a navel agreement.” France’s voice was hard, but softened when he said, “Mathieu, _mon dieu,_ what is going on?”

“I’m going to take Johnny home.”

“No! I have business.” Confederacy knocked Canada’s hands away. H stood, pushing past him. Canada straightened up warily. “For God’s sake, you act like I’m a rattler.

Canada gave him a look and Confederacy looked away. He was awfully patronizing for someone who was still a colony. He straightened his jacket and began walking toward the door. “Where are you going?” Canada asked.

“As I mentioned, I have business.”

“Johnny...” He grabbed Confederacy’s arm.

“Matthew, you will release me or my fist will find itself in your face.”

“I will not have you treat my...” France began.

“Your what? Lover? I would think you would appreciate my absence.” Confederacy yanked his arm out of Canada’s grip and took more than a little satisfaction with the pale color that crossed France’s face.

“Are you going home?” Canada asked, putting up a hand to stop France from speaking.

“Soon.” Confederacy stepped away from them and called for a servant to escort him out. “I’m sure you two have plenty to, well, do.” The offense on their faces was so satisfying as he strolled out of France’s home and onto his other business.

 

***

 

_July 29, 1862_

_Lairds Shipyard, West England_

Confederacy waved to get the rest of the men aboard. There was a measure of secrecy necessary. Union had his own spies around and they had been dropping hints into the ears of English authorities. They had to take the _Enrica,_ also known as hull number 290, out of this shipyard before it was confiscated. Slipping out of the docks in the darkness, he watched the coastline of England disappear into the distance.

He didn’t relax until they were out in international waters where Union would be hard pressed to prove anything. No evidence. A crew of British civilian sailors. Soon enough they would be waiting and anchored on Terceira, over 1000 miles from the coast of Portugal. Guns would arrive and a command crew. 

He wrinkled his nose at the thought of Portugal. He wasn’t terribly fond of him, but then again, that was from _before._ At any rate, he had it on good authority he would look the other way. He was counting on that. 

In a few weeks he would be sailing home and Union would be oh so very sorry over his blockade. The _CSS Alabama_ was going to be waiting for his merchant sailors. If Confederacy’s shipping was going to be interrupted turnabout's fair play.

An eye for an eye.

 

***

 

_September 17, 1862 (morning)_

_Outside Sharpsburg, Maryland_

_Battle of Antietam (USA)/Battle of Sharpsburg (CSA)_

General McClellan’s anxiety was starting to wear on America. He leaned back into the chair in the commander’s tent, staring at the breakfast that had been placed in front of him. He knew he should eat, but he felt like he couldn’t even open his mouth. The General and his officers leaned over their maps, scouring their information for Robert E. Lee’s position.

“The numbers must be too low. Lee must have more men,” whispered McClellan. America wished he knew, that Confederacy would show himself. What would he do? Put a bullet through his head? He tried to picture it, but he couldn’t. Canada had said Confederacy looked like him, America didn’t know. He wanted to shout at him, yell, he wanted to be whole again. Would that take killing his other half? America leaned forward abruptly, catching his head in his hands. It hurt. All of his thoughts hurt. 

The officers looked at him. America pushed back the pain and stood, hoping he didn’t appear as shaky as he felt. He picked up his hat and pushed it onto his head. Checking the pistol at his hip, he looked up at them. “Where do you want me, General McClellan?”

“You may go where it suits you.” America nodded and headed into the ranks. Everyone was being mustered and put into lines. Cartridge boxes, rifles, bayonets, anticipation, anger at the enemy, and fear. The feeling gripped America in his stomach. Some of these men had stood against their countrymen before, some had not.

When the drums gave the march and the first crack of artillery fire split the air, America’s fingers shook.

***

Noise. His ears were ringing from it. Shouts. Explosions. Cries. It was impossible to make order from any of it. America couldn’t move. He couldn’t even tell if he was breathing. No, he must be, he reasoned. He wouldn’t be able to sense a thing if he were dead. He was laying in the cornfield. They had advanced toward the Confederate position through the North Woods towards Antietam Creek. They’d spotted the shine of Confederate bayonets. America’s head throbbed.

There was something sharp against his stomach, ground into the mud. He moved, his body feeling slow. It was the grip of his Springfield, shattered into two pieces. He could remember that, the fire so thick that the corn stalks were shorn like they’d been reaped. The bullets had blasted rifles into nothing. Men into nothing. 

He could still hear the battle going on in the distance. He turned his head to try and see what was around him. He wished he had not. He was surrounded by his own people. He didn’t care if they wore blue or gray. Dead. The wounded that could had crawled away. Those that couldn’t cried out. America lay his head back down, letting the pain drag him down.

What would it take for this to be over?

 

***

 

_September 17, 1862 (evening)_

_Outside Sharpsburg, Maryland_

“I almost wished we hadn’t arrived.” England stared at the battlefield, pen and paper clutched unused in his hands as the other journalists he was traveling with began to write with fervor. Bodies littered the ground, once dry was soaked with urine and blood. Hundreds of dead from both sides lay, unmoving like upturned graves.

“And all in one day? Against their own countrymen?”

“Have you Brits not ‘ad your own civil war?” one of the journalists asked, and England gave a slow nod. 

“But you lot are a new nation, most wait a bit longer before slaughtering their own,” England said quietly.  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.' Upon the fly-leaf were the words, 'We hope and pray that you may be permitted by kind Providence, after the war is over, to return." He breathed.  

For a brief moment England forgot all the concerns he had for his own sake and his people as he took in the sight of the carnage before him, the stench. Bile rose in tandem with terror up his throat, presenting a foul taste to the back of his mouth. This needed to end. America was doing this to himself, brother against brother, America was being torn apart. 

This needed to stop. 

He needed to find America and talk some sense into him. Soldiers still alive, some just barely, began to walk through the dead, most ignoring the small group of journalists, some glaring. England scratched furiously into his notebook, the most required notes to send back to Parliament. He would be able to flush it with details later, at a more private time, there was no way that this battle would fade away from his mind by morning. Unbuttoning his sleeves he rolled them up to his elbows and walked further, watching as an officer in Confederate gray stopped to help a soldier in plain clothes to his feet. England's steps slowed, it was men from the Union that often wore plain clothes into battle and yet here was a Confederate officer, a major general no less judging by his decorations. The Union soldier favored his right leg and England cleared his throat as he approached the pair. “Perhaps I may be of help. I am guessing you are looking for other men, Major.”  

Small eyes turned on him before the officer arched a brow “You British journalists certainly know how to smell a battle. I have seen your lot at the end of nearly every battle thus far,” he drawled, his Virginian accent thick. 

“I have... much experience in battles, so knowing where one is, is not hard,” England stated, coming over to hoist the soldiers arm around his shoulder, the man not even bothering to cast him a curious glance. Instead he wearily watched the officer. Together the pair of them began to help the soldier hobble around those too far gone for aid. 

“So you’ve been in them and yet you don’t stick your nose in ours?” the officer gave him a less than amused glance.

“I am here to observe. Her Majesty and Parliament have yet to decide on our nation's involvement so I shall watch until then. Although I admit I have just arrived and therefore since you have yet to introduce yourself I guess that you expect me to know who you are.”

“And you have yet to introduce yourself either. So careful who you shame about terrible manners, boy. You are much younger than I. Respect your elders.”

“Ah, yes.” England held back a snort at the comment regarding his age. “Forgive me. Arthur Kirkland at your, temporary, service.” 

“Well, Mr. Kirkland. Since you will seem to be joining the rest of your journalist brothers from across the pond I expect we may run into each other again. Since it seems you have some interests, otherwise you would not be helping me. The name is Jackson. Confederate Major General Thomas Jackson.” 

“Now that is a name I have heard of,” England responded with a surge of hope. ‘Stonewall’ Jackson as he’d been nicknamed had become something of a romantic figure in newspapers in Europe. Such a famous man, certainly he would have met America at some point. “And that actually makes this much easier for me. I was hoping to actually speak with your General Lee.”

“He’s not taking interviews,” Jackson growled in warning as two Union shoulders came for their companion. 

“Not an interview.” England countered, allowing the man to be taken from between them. “There is a high chance that he is familiar with one of my dear relations here in America. One who has gone missing. His brother and I are trying to find his whereabouts and his safety.”

“Just because he serves in the Confederate Army does not mean that General Lee will know him.”

“Oh I am certain they have spoken,” England said flatly. “I am looking for Captain John Jones.”

“You mean Johnny?” Jackson’s eyes widened in surprise.   
  
“Yes, that is what others seem to call him.”

“Huh.” Jackson’s fists settled on his hips “To think Johnny is wrapped up with a journalist. A British one nonetheless.” He snorted.

“Yes, well, stranger things have happened,” he commented as Jackson shrugged. “Help me a bit more and in exchange I shall take you to Lee.” He gestured for England to follow. With a sigh and a nod, the British nation did just that. He was anxious to find America’s whereabouts and ready to be on this way. But perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. He could speak with several soldiers and gain further information, much more than simply watching from the sidelines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you've been enjoying our story please leave us a comment or a kudo! 
> 
> News wise, we have most of the Civil War chapters done and will hopefully be able get you more chapters faster! We've learned a ton about the American Civil War in this process and it has been a fascinating challenge to figure out which of the messy, complicated events/issues to help portray this story. Stay tuned! 
> 
> Next up: Confederacy makes another attempt at getting allies. America becomes suspicious of British involvement. England ends up in a military prison.


	20. Can't Take it Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England's masquerade as a journalist ends when he gets arrested crossing the border from the Confederate States to the United States. America is losing hope. Confederacy gets a loan. They all wonder when it will come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mature content towards the end of the chapter!

_Mid-January 1863_

_Southern Virginia_

“A Transcription By the President of the United States of America: A Proclamation.

Whereas, on the twenty-second day of September, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two, a proclamation was issued by the President of the United States, containing, among other things, the following, to wit-” England lowered the transcription to peer at the journalists crammed amongst the table in the small tavern, listening to him as he read. Clearing his throat he continued.

"That on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free; and the Executive Government of the United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, will recognize and maintain the freedom of such persons, and will do no act or acts to repress such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may make for their actual freedom-”

“That man is just going to cause more problem with this all,” a man barked, already deep in his cups despite it being late afternoon.

“Doing anything, even nothing right now would rouse these Americans into further tizzy,” England argued as as he stared the Irish man down. This was not the first time he had run into him as he followed the armies from battlefield to battlefield. With a large beard, and a heavy frame William Howard Russell was a hard man to miss, even if his success as a journalist didn’t give him a good title already. Russell had spent twenty-two months covering the Crimean war as a journalist, the siege of sevastopol being where England had watched him gather info with the eye ofhawk. He had also managed to pop up and write articles for The Time’s during the Indian Rebellion of 1857.

So the fact that he was covering the civil war was of no surprise. He was one of the reasons Florence Nightingale had received so much credit on her wartime nursing reports. Yet, he was not well received by many on the front lines, England often had heard that the man was ‘a vulgar low Irishman, sings a good song, drinks anyone's brandy and water and smokes as many cigars as a Jolly Good Fellow’. He is just the sort of chap to get information, particularly out of youngsters. Yet, despite such a bad reputation, England begrudged his importance in today’s war development. Russell’s dispatches were invaluable, the first time the public had received such detailed news, the outrage was tremendous and now battlefield treatment of wounded and deceased soldiers took a turn for the more humane. If one could use ‘war’ and ‘humane’ in the same sentence while it remained positive that is.

“Yes, but it really depends ‘ow Europe sees it eh? Since these Americans here be vying for support?”

“Well, yes,” England said slowly, nursing his own cigar carefully. That was indeed the larger problem here. The Confederacy was outraged, but however when put to paper England could only see one way that his Queen and people would view the situation. It was a weak gesture from the floundering northern government. However, such a strong, and bold statement completely disowning slavery, and the president finally speaking his mind about the debate was probably in his favor. The United Kingdom had long since banned slavery, and while Victoria had been leaning towards aiding the Confederacy, she and the Parliament both agreed that a dissolution of such a system would be a requirement in exchange for their aid. And France was sure to follow. It had been a risky move on Lincoln’s part, and it truly could go either way. Concern once more made itself known to England.

He really needed to find America.

***

_January 29, 1863_

_New Orleans, Louisiana_

Confederacy tried not to let the smugness he felt show on his face. The heart will always win out, and it was the case with the private loan he was currently receiving. A beautiful Southern girl had won the heart of a man with more than a few banknotes. He thanked Frédéric Emile, keeping his eyes on the Baron d’Erlanger even while France scowled at him from the other side of the table. Getting up to shake Confederacy’s hand, the banker paused and reached into his coat to pull out a letter. “For my beautiful Matilda,” he said.

“I’m sure she is looking forward to her wedding.” Confederacy’s smile felt genuine. Matilda Slidell, the youngest daughter of John Slidell, one of his diplomats to France, was a charming and beautiful girl. She had crossed paths with the French aristocrat when he was visiting New Orleans and his heart had been swept away. They were arranged to be married within the year. Matilda, through her patriotism, had encouraged her fiance to offer the terms to the Confederate government. There had been the typical arguments in Congress over the Erlinger proposal, but a beggar could not be a chooser. Confederacy had to accept the luck that Cupid’s arrow had struck and money was coming along with it. If he could get French interest more aligned with his own, maybe he would finally get France to lean on England. He wanted commitment from someone, anyone, at this point.

With farewells, Confederacy was left in the room with France, the elder nation being unnervingly quiet. Confederacy closed the door behind d’Erlanger and walked over to the table where the Frenchman had left some gifts. He reached up and straightened his thin tie, buying himself a few more moments as he closed his fingers around the neck of a bottle. He let the words slide off his tongue in the French of Louisiana, taking a little bit of delight in the way France twitched. “Perhaps we should celebrate our business arrangement. And that an American is marrying a Frenchman. The Baron was kind enough to leave some champagne.”

“It’s odd that you call your people Americans still.”

“Why not? I am the Confederate States of America.” The pop of the cork leaving the bottle punctuated his assertion. The only sound was the bubbling liquid striking the cup of the stemmed glass. He turned to France and offered it. France wasn’t looking at him as he took it. He drained half the glass in one gulp.

“I would be a drunkard if I celebrated every intermarriage of my people with another nation’s.”

“Then perhaps you should only have a select few.” Confederacy stepped around the table, leaning on its surface next to France’s chair. France glanced up at him, appraisingly.

“What makes you think that you are worthy of such special consideration?”

“Because we have a history. Some of my lands were once a part of your holdings.”

“That I sold to you.”

“To keep England from having them if you lost Napoleon’s War. You know that he would have taken them.”

“Wouldn’t that have been something, for you to be surrounded by Arthur on three sides when you foolishly declared war on him.” Confederacy felt a pang of something in the back of his mind, like someone was knocking on a door. He didn’t want to open it. He needed to change the subject.

“I heard that Matthew has thrown you over.”

“Here we could have possibly had a genial conversation and you bring up your brother. Mathieu is an enigma, perhaps to you more than anyone.”

“I see him from time to time. He won’t tell me Alfred’s secrets though. Although, I don’t think that he tells him mine.”

“Good of him.” France’s fingers were tight on his glass and he reached around Confederacy for the bottle. He filled his glass nearly to the rim. Confederacy watched him. He needed one of them, England or France, it didn’t even matter anymore.

“Have you thought more on what I offered you?”

“I do not think you really understand what you are offering. Trading your body for political gain will not make you happy or fulfill any desire.”

“You speak from experience?”

“Yes, and you are lucky that you do not know.”

“You would have lain with me during my revolution.”

“You and I both know that what would have happened in that room was about someone else. You were wiser as Alfred, strange as that is to say.”

Confederacy wrinkled his nose. “I do not want to talk about Alfred.”

“Then be happy that you can fight a little longer. _L’amour_ saved you today, even if it was not mutual affection between us. Be grateful, for your pains are likely not over.”

“I am.” France fell silent and went back to drinking his champagne. Confederacy watched him for a moment, frustrated that he could never get an actual answer out of me regarding an alliance. He stood up, finishing off his own glass. “I will be leaving for the battlefield in the morning. You know where my rooms are if you change your mind.”

France didn’t. At dawn, Confederacy was still alone.

***

_February 1863_

_Northern Virginia_

“Shhhhh, I betcha we could do it.” England leaned over the table in the tavern, peering at theEdward Wynne over the table, a flagon clutched in his hand. The tavern was rowdy, shouting gamblers, and cheering men. No one paid attention to the two men in a small table crammed in the middle. They would have drawn more attention to themselves if they had been in a shadowed corner, watching the crowd beneath cloak and dagger like some Ranger of a different time.

“You want us to run over the northern lines, coming out of the south like this?!”

“Of course! We can do it.” England pushed for the man to agree. Wynne stared at him uneasily. The man was nothing special, just a British captain that had come down from Canada to make his own decisions on the civil war.

“We’ve got two horses! The fools won't even notice us! They are just Americans!” England whispered loudly, chuckling deep into his cup. It was a brilliant idea! He would get over the lines and find America! Then he could go home! Thrusting his hand across the table he stared expectantly at the Canadian man. Wynne stared pensively before grabbing it with his own, a grin crawling up his face.

“I betcha I’ll make it before you, eh.”

“Oh... those are fighting words.”

***

“Well, that certainly could have gone better!” England chortled, grinning at the captain who was with him as they were shoved along, hands tied behind their backs. To think that just days before they were traveling, masquerading as journalists, gathering stories and learning.

“Maybe next time we try to cross lines in a war zone we shan’t do it so sloshed!” Edward Wynne laughed as he stumbled and England couldn’t help but snort and stumble along with him. Far too many ales and two horses.

“Completely buggered and I still beat you!” England sang, kicking, and missing, at the officer who shoved him forward with a command to shut up. “Oy! You can’t treat me that way!” England hiccuped. The officer’s response was drowned out by the sudden heaviness in his cheeks.

“Fuck! The British Bastard just vomited all over my shoes!”

“To hell! Now the Canadian!”

***

_The next day..._

_Washington D.C._

“He said his name was Arthur Kirkland?” America asked, running a hand through his hair. _England, here? But why?_ It could just be a coincidence. He looked up at the aid who had approached his end of the dining room table. America glanced up at Lincoln, sitting with some of the Cabinet. Maps and correspondence littered the space. America had his own stack that seemed to get larger and larger. The war was still slow for the winter, and America couldn’t help but hope it was the last one he would have to survive. He leaned back in his chair, dropping his pen onto the table.

“We’re holding them in the Old Capital Jail, he was with another man, a Captain Edward Wynne who said he was a British military man from Canada. Supposedly, he was just going down to take a look,” said the aid, with a frown that showed how he felt about that. America couldn’t help the frown that showed up on his own face. It was becoming all too common for British troops to walk through his lands and show back up on the battlefield as Confederate recruits. So much for England’s promise to stay out of it. The government could say whatever they wanted, the truth was that there were British boots in the war, as many in Confederacy’s camp as his own. He should have told them no when they asked to join his army.

“All right, I’ll come see to it.”

***

England was laying on his back in the cell, looking up at the ceiling. The alcohol in his veins was starting to burn off and it made him agitated. America had no right to hold him. He was a neutral party, unless America was no in the habit of imprisoning journalists. He rolled onto his side. He couldn’t even recognize America in any of this ugliness.

“Ah, Big Brother Arthur. I like the look of you behind bars.” The sound of an Irish voice sent him jolting upwards, head dizzy from the alcohol. He squinted at the now open door at a young adolescent girl, her red hair cropped short and wearing a Union uniform.

“Who are you?” England said, sensing that she was a nation, but confound it all if he could place her.

“Despite the fact that your brain is soaked in ale, I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out, aye?” She grinned.

England’s mind reeled. “You.., you’re the personification of the Irish separatists. Seamus... that little shit, lied to me. How long have you been here?”

“See, I knew you would figure it out. My name is Colleen.” She twirled a piece of her red hair around her finger. England could see the resemblance to Seamus now. A new nation sprung out of ideas... what was the world coming to? “Oh, I’ve been here for a while, not that I haven’t gone home now and then. I’m learning how to fight a war, Big Brother. Do you know who I’m going to war with?”

He didn’t see any reason to dignify that with an answer. He lay back down, if she wanted to come at him he was sure he could stop her. She didn’t go anywhere, he could sense her present in the doorframe and it was until a second pair of footsteps sounded on the hall, did England risk a glance. He gasped. “Colleen, don’t pick on him, not in my house okay?” said America. He looked ragged, face pale and missing his glasses. His uniform was deep blue and caught his eyes. The right color for once.

“I’m sorry, Alfred, I couldn’t resist.” She wrapped her arms around his middle in a hug and America patted her on the head. Her quick footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“I didn’t know that she was going to get here first, I would have told the guards to keep her away,” America said, coming into the room. He sat down on the cot on the opposite wall. “I thought it was just a coincidence, but let me start by saying you are the last person I expected to find in my jail as a potential Confederate spy.”

“Well, it’s obviously a terrible mistake. Possibly detrimental to international relations, so I expect I won't be here long.”

America looked at him, looking entirely too much like he had in his revolution. Too much blue. “Considering that you’ve declared neutrality it’s certainly a problem to find you in restricted territory with a possible Confederate sympathizer. Not to mention that we caught two more of your officers who were very vocal to say what they thought of my efforts to preserve the Union. Why were you down south?”

“Visiting.” England shrugged. “I am a foreigner how was I supposed to know?”

“I was told you were intoxicated, but not that you were still drunk. You really think I’m going to believe that you were unaware that I’m in the middle of a civil war when you would have had to either arrive in one of my ports and sneak across the lines, _or_ that you were on a blockade runner to land in a rebellious state?”

England opened his mouth to contradict America. He didn't need to know he had come in on a blockade runner, then purchased one to be captain of for a month. It had all been rather fun. He failed to smother the wicked grin that spread over his face. “I am not committing to any accusation. Is it Alfred or John today?”

America’s brow furrowed. “Last I heard, John was somewhere in Georgia. I’m surprised you don’t know that. From what I understand, you and he have gotten rather close.”

“Then the two of us have rather different opinions of the situation then.” England frowned.

“What do you think the situation is?”

“Your accusations of closeness.”

“So you’re saying my intelligence is false? Why should I believe you?”

England shrugged, staring at the ceiling. “You haven't in a long time, so I don't see why you would now.”

“If you want to stay in this jail, you should keep doing what you are doing.” America crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. Silence stretched between them for some time. “If it’s not true that Johnny was after you... why were you in Virginia? Taking pleasure at my misfortune?”

“Just visiting.”

“As I said before, in the middle of a war? One in which you’ve allowed a traitor to use your shipyards to build steamers that attack my shipping and naval vessels? What did you bring him?”

“I didn't bring him anything.” England sighed. “I was unaware of what was going on.”

America sighed. “I don’t believe you. I know the last time we were together in New York wasn’t exactly... whatever it was. But do you really think letting the Confederate States win is the best way to get back at me?”

“I didn't know, Alfred!” England snapped sitting up “I was busy dealing with a dying monarch! I was a bit preoccupied! Do you not bloody remember? You were there! If your accusation of closeness is referring to that I saw him before and after, then it’s true! However, it doesn't have anything to due with your lack of performance in bed!”

“So he was there... that’s what I thought.” He stood up and began pacing back and forth. “Fine, if you aren’t here to spy for Johnny... what are you doing here? And don’t say visiting. Battlefields aren’t exactly destinations for holidays.”

“Watching... and deciding,” England said quietly, tension lining his shoulders.

America paused in his paces. “Deciding what?”

“Victoria wants information before she decides who to support.”

Putting a hand to his forehead, America’s head drooped. He was quiet, emotions flitting across his face. “I see. So you are spying on me... us, I guess.”

“I'm here to figure out how to stop the famine that this war is causing for my people.”

“I won’t apologize for the blockade, if he could get goods to port he could ruin me. I know that’s what Johnny is dangling in front of your nose, Francis’ too. Did you know there’s an entire French Brigade wearing gray? That bastard...” he said. England couldn’t be sure if he was referring to the Confederate States of America or France. America dropped back down onto the bunk, leaning his head against the wall.

“Alfred…” England sighed, getting to his feet. “What do you want me to do? All information points that supporting the Confederate States would be England's best option. And what would you have me do? If what I have been told is true... you are both the... America I knew.”

“I... it’s not untrue. Except, I can’t be whole without those states. I hate him... but I need him. I’m all of this... it’s mine and it’s ugly and bloody and my people are dying and...” America choked on the words, catching the sob that threatened to come up. “Damn it... I didn’t want you to see me like this. I never wanted...”

“Alfred.” England's chest tightened. This is why he had been trying his hardest to avoid running into America, even as every fiber of his being has told him he needed to find him. He wanted to be angry at the boy and he was. He didn't want to comfort the boy, but it killed him not to. It was all a disturbing back and forth. “Alfred...” he said again, feet carrying him across the small cell to crouch down. He didn't want to cup America's face, to use his thumbs to wipe away the fat tears that rolled down America's face. He didn't want to press their foreheads together in a sign of comfort, or to press a chaste kiss to the boys mouth before brushing back his hair. His pride and anger didn't want to do any of those things, but he couldn't help himself.

America was trying to get a hold of himself, trying to control the tears that couldn’t stop. “The war isn’t even two years old yet... I don’t know how to end it... Mr. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation didn’t get a surrender... and you... I don’t want to have to fight you again... and whichever side you take...” He turned his face away. “You should go home...”

“I can't Alfred.” He shook his head. “Not yet.”

America turned back, his nose bumping England’s. “Then...” He put his hands on England’s shoulders, shifting him back so that he could get up. “I regret to inform you that you are a prisoner. It’s for your own safety.” He made to walk back through the door.

“Alfred!” England grabbed him by the wrist. “Don't...”

“What else can I do?” he whispered, turning his hand so he could touch England in return.

“I can't leave just yet.” He grabbed America's hand and forced the other to wrap his fingers around his wrist. Watching the boy’s eyes widen in surprise, England's lips thinned. “My people are becoming homeless, starving and I am now in the middle of a scarlet fever epidemic and unable to fight it off.” England had always been on the slight side, but it was becoming more obvious. The bones of his wrist more prevalent and his cheeks sharper. The American Civil War was affecting more than just America. England was the world's largest textile industry and the cotton ban was choking it.

America held him, eyes searching his face. “What do you want me to do?”

“Let me go. I told you I wasn't picking a side. I am here watching.” He stepped closer “Do not leave me in a cold cell. It's not fair and you know it.”

America reached up, brushing the fingers of his free hand across England’s cheek. “How will I know that you don’t cross the lines?”

England frowned. “You will restrict where I walk?”

“Everyone is... that’s why you were arrested.”

“But _you_ ,” England put heavy emphasis on the last word, “you will lock me up here like some common criminal?” His fingers reached up to tangle with Americas. It felt so nice to touch him, it took everything in his power not to lean into the boy. He allowed himself a step.

A sad expression crossed America’s face. “I can only let you out if it’s on one the aid ships that’s going back to England... I wasn’t trying to starve you out, too.”

England's expression hardened and he stepped back. “I see.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you... I don’t trust _him._ I don’t want him to... you know what he’s been doing, right? Requiring British expatriates to join the army or be imprisoned. I’ve heard things about the conditions of Confederate jails...”

“Yes... what ‘he’ is doing,” England said quietly.

America’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means nothing.” He shook his head, crossing his arms. “If you are going to keep my person prisoner then at least bring me a blanket. I can't keep warm.”

“I can get you one,” America said quietly, shuffling slightly in discomfort. He rubbed his hands down his arms as if he was cold as well. “Give me a few days... then I might be able to get you out of here. If you’re, well, if you’re not lying about the observing part then you can come with me... get my side of the story.”

England bristled. “When have I ever lied to you?!”

“It’s not about that.” America stepped closer. “The only way I can get you out of here right now without making an incident is if you’re promising to leave and say this was all a big mistake. They don’t know who you are right now, only that your name is Arthur Kirkland and you asked for me by name. Everyone is really touchy about what’s going on in your Parliament and some statements that have been rather pro-Confederate. If it gets out that you were caught crossing the lines from south to north what are people going to think?! They’ll have the same questions I had, and they don’t know you like I do. So just a few days, can you do that?”

“I can't leave,” England said firmly “I promised Victoria answers.”

America picked up his pacing again, running a hand through his hair. He stopped, giving England a sidelong glance. “If I take you out of here... you’d have to stay by my side or stay where I put you, understand?”

“I understand.”

“All right, come with me and we can get your things.” America frowned as though he really didn’t think this was a good idea. Together they traveled down the stairs of the jail and were given back England’s property. “I can vouch for him, it was a misunderstanding,” America gave as the excuse. There were still curious gazes on their backs when they left the building. “There aren’t really any horses to spare, but the house isn’t far,” he said, stepping onto the street and making sure to keep pace with England.

“Mn.” England muttered, placing his hat firmly on his head. “And the Captain? Shall he be released?”

“Not yet. As I told you, there’s been far too many of your people coming through Canada, going down ‘to take a look’ and coming back as Confederate sympathizers. Matthew’s been chasing his own people back and forth across the border. They lie about where they’re from and join both armies.” America huddled into his coat, against the winter chill and the snow that sloshed around their boots in the muddy road.

“As is war” England muttered, watching the people around him closely as he turned up his collar. He cast a glance at America “How far?”

“We’re about there,” America said. “Dinner should be ready. The First Lady insisted I get a cook since I haven’t been eating very much.”

“Logical and convenient.” England nodded. “She seems to be sensible.”

“Mrs. Lincoln would appreciate the compliment. I think... well, she couldn’t do anything for her sons that died, so I think she’s kind of adopted me. Here we are.” America took England by the elbow and turned him up towards one of the townhomes. In the distance, the capitol buildings could be seen. America walked up the steps and opened the door, ushering England into the house. In the distance, the sounds of an army camp bedding down could be heard until the door closed behind them.

“Alfred, you’re back!” came the excited voice of an adolescent girl, when she came around the corner, Colleen’s face went from happy to sour. “Why is he here?”

“Arthur is going to stay here for a few days,” America said. “If you want to go back to New York, I’ll get you a train ticket.” The girl nodded and disappeared up the stairs. “I told Ireland she could stay... I guess I should have told you the _other_ Ireland was here.”

“Yes, you should have,” he hissed.

“Well, you don’t have to see her, she likes New York better anyway... and Massachusetts. Anyway, I haven’t had time to try and send her back...” America shrugged out of his coat and put it on the coat rack near the door. “Let’s go eat.”

England started after Colleen for a moment before nodding and following the younger blond. Dinner had been laid out, simple fare of roast chicken, vegetables, and bread. America pulled out a seat at the table for England.

“Can you bring out a second setting and pack something up for Colleen?” America said to the cook who looked at England curiously. She nodded and quickly returned with dishware before disappearing back into the kitchen. “It’s not much,” America said, settling into his seat.

“You fought me tooth and nail when I tried to get you to keep housekeepers.” England shook his head. Your president's wife must be an amazing woman.”

“She rubs a lot of the men the wrong way. She’s very outspoken.” America smiled a little. “She can be very convincing though.” The smile slipped back off his face. “I worry about them.”

“That's a sentiment I'm quite familiar with.”

“I was sad to hear about Prince Albert... my people liked him too.”

“Everyone did. If you didn't like Albert there was something wrong with you.”

“I... I appreciated his words. I really didn’t want to go to war with you, despite what Mr. Seward was, hell, is, saying. He thinks that fighting you is all that brings the states together... I hope he’s wrong.” America poked at the food he’d put on his plate, it wasn’t much.

“If that is the only thing keeping you together you will be in for a rude awakening,” England muttered, focusing on his food. He was ravenous.

“Right.” America speared a piece of food with his fork and then sat it back down. He stared at the tablecloth.

“Eat Alfred.” England frowned.

“I’m not hungry.”

England set his fork down loudly. It was disconcerting for America not to be immediately devouring whatever food had been placed in front of him. “Fine, then neither of us shall be eating.”

“No, you should eat. I’m just... tired.”

England crossed his arms, raising a brow silently. “Then we shall retire.”

America looked at him, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Nice to know some things haven’t changed.” He sighed. “Anyway, you don’t need to hurry on my account. There’s a room you can stay in, second door on the left at the top of the stairs. If you need anything, my room is the door on the right.”

“Ah.” England rolled around the wine in his glass with a thoughtful expression.

America’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. “Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night.” England said quietly, not looking up from the glass he twisted between his fingers. In all truths, he would rather shatter it.

America walked past him, his footsteps heavy on the stairs. A door opened and closed leaving England alone in the dining room. The cook walked in a moment later, shaking her head at the barely touched meal. “Poor boy...” she said, picking up America’s plate. “Do you need anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you.” England shook his head, downing the glass before removing the napkin from his lap and placing it on the table. Pushing away from his seat, he bid the woman a good night and headed for the stairs himself. Quietly, with the smallest of clicks from his heels he made his way down the hall. A door, slightly ajar caught his attention. Stopping just outside England peered through the crack. “Colleen. Still sleeping like a little child...”

In the room Ireland lay sprawled across the bed, sheets a mess. Her red hair catching the moonlight from askew curtains, copper in the glow as she slept. Nudging the door open England entered the room quietly. “Still a little brat, but I guess I’m the big brother now,” he muttered, a sense of affection spreading through his chest. Leaning over the bed, he gently pulled at the sheets, tucking her back beneath them. The girl mumbled in her sleep, rubbing at her nose before falling still again. Settling on the edge of the bed, England brushed her messy bangs from her forehead, before leaning over to press his lips to the pale freckled skin. “I was really hoping you would not have to see any trauma growing up.” He sighed. “Guess I keep messing that up, huh?” He petted her hair when she stirred, humming quietly until she stilled again. Everything had gone awry, nothing according to plan.

As he stepped back out into the hallway, light flickered underneath America’s door.With a sigh, England closed the door quietly behind him, wincing as it clicked. He could only hope the girl slept despite the noise. Turning around again, he stared at the door just down the hall and for a moment he stood there, debating. Rubbing at his forehead with a sigh, he headed towards America's room. This was ridiculous. America was being ridiculous. Grabbing the handle England half expected the door to be locked. If it had been, he could have simply said he tried and retired to private quarters. Yet, the knob twisted and he pushed open the door that plan was dashed.

The room was simple, a bed pushed up against one wall, a fireplace at the opposite throwing a warm glow across the patterned rug. Beside the bed was a large chest of drawers and a dressing screen. A candle sputtered on top of a small writing table. The light played over America’s hair. He had crossed his arms over the table and resting his head upon them. He must have been working on something, a pencil still resting between his fingers. He jolted when he heard the creak of the door, turning, hand scrambling for a single shot boot pistol that had been lying on the desk. It took a moment for him to recognize who was standing in his doorway. “Arthur... you, uh, surprised me... could you not find your room?”

“I'm not daft. I can find the guest room. I just decided that I didn't want it,” he muttered, cheeks pink. Stepping into the room he closed the door behind him, fingers moving to the knot of his neck tie. “You're a host and your guest feels neglected,” he said quickly.

America blinked at him, confusion evident on his face. He scooted back in his chair, so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look at England. “Do you want to play cards or something?”

“No, I'd like to retire. However, I highly doubt you have the staff to set warming pans to the sheets and if you did, asking them at this hour would certainly be rude.” He loosened his neck tie, pulling it off. “I decided I would achieve warm sheets in a much more natural way.”

America’s eyes widened with understanding. He blushed, looking down at the floor. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t sleep well these days... I’ll probably wake you up.”

“Like you did with your kicking, and flailing in your sleep as a child? I'm not sure if Francis or you gave me more bruises,” he said flatly, leaning down to remove his shoes. Placing them by the door, he shrugged out of his coat.

America was quiet, a puff of air to put out the flickering candle, leaving the room awash in the glow from the fireplace. He got up from his chair and went to his wardrobe. He began pulling his own day clothes off, quickly sliding into his night clothes. England thought he saw the flash of something wrapped around America’s back, a bandage? But in a blink it was covered by the fabric. Walking to the bed, America pulled back the blankets and sat down at the edge.

Unbuttoning his vest, England walked over to the chair, hanging it and his jacket over the back. Untucking his shirt as he turned, he walked towards the bed only to stop in front of America. The bed was pressed up against the wall of the small room so either he would have to crawl over America or wait for the man to scoot in.

It took England clearing his throat before America looked up at him. He pulled his legs up and moved across the bed, laying down with his back to England. Heaving a sigh, England slipped under the blankets, pulling them up beneath his arms. “If this is completely repulsive to you I can leave,” England said, breaking the silence.

America was silent a moment, then he shifted, rolling over so he could look at England. “It’s the opposite. I want your arms around me... and I know I shouldn’t...”

“Why? Because of the incident before?” He cringed. “I acknowledge that it was a disaster and-” He shook his head. “If I was that rattled by it still I wouldn't be here.”

“That... and I’m afraid I’ll hurt you. The blackouts, I don’t remember what I do.” He scooted closer, unconsciously wanting England’s touch, the ghost of the kiss in the jail cell came back to England’s mind.

“I'm the fucking British Empire. Like you could hurt me, you little upstart.” England scowled.Yet he rolled over, fingers finding purchase in wheat colored hair, pulling America into a kiss. He really had just meant to go to sleep. Nothing else. But he couldn't resist.

America stiffened, shocked by the sudden change of events. Then his body overtook his mind and he kissed him back, arms wrapping around his middle. Scooting closer to America, England relaxed in his hold. It just felt so comfortable, so right. He kissed the other slowly with ease.

***

America held him, slowly relaxing. He pushed away the worry, his worries that England had chosen someone else. He was here, now, in his arms and in his bed. He couldn’t think about the rest. He felt like clay that could reform under England’s hands. It wasn’t going to last forever, but in this moment he would cling to it like a drowning man clings to anything that floats.

“Alfred…” England pulled back to press a kiss you his forehead. “My Alfred,” he murmured, the words drowning in a yawn.

America smiled, the first genuine one he’d felt in a long time. He pressed his face into the crook of England’s neck. “I’ve missed you.”

“I...” England cleared his throat in embarrassment looking up at the ceiling. “Ah, yes,” he said, quickly.

***

The exhaustion crept up on America and soon his breath evened out into sleep, curled up against England. England watched the shadows on the wall from the fireplace shift and shiver, fading as the fire did. He could leave tonight, he glanced at the window and then the door. That would be the easiest thing to do. Yet, this would also be a good chance to gather information for Victoria. He swallowed. He was also very tired, and a warm, pliant, and more than welcome body kept his sheets warm tonight. It was a temptation that left England with no guilt as he closed his eyes, allowing the much welcome sleep to take him.

It was a kiss that woke him the next morning. Eyes fluttering open for a brief moment England blinked against the light from the window before letting them close again, returning the kiss. His mind slowly caught up with his consciousness. Judging by the light it was sunrise. And he was in America's house, who was kissing him.England returned the kiss lazily, opening his mouth to coax the other into a slightly higher level of intimacy. The hand on his back pressed him forward, a grunt of approval rumbled from his throat as his body pressed against America’s. Warm blankets and slow hands woke up further and England found he was comfortable. America, with his larger frame easily rolled him on his back, a body that always seemed to run at a higher temperature than his own pressed him further into the mattress. A mattress that was probably highly uncomfortable, but compared to his last several nights of inns or stables felt like feather down. That while being kept more than warm was like heaven. Not haste or red tinted desire pushed them along this morning, it was calm and peaceful, comfortable and now familiar. For a brief moment England wondered how long it would last.

***

Running the fingers of his right hand through England’s hair, America pulled back a little to look at him. England’s eyes were still closed, no furrow between his overlarge brows. He did look thinner and America tried to will away the sliver of guilt. He brushed the tip of his nose against England’s. “I was afraid you were a dream,” he said, voice quiet. He nearly feared any sort of volume would break the spell that had settled over them.

“Dream or nightmare depending on who you ask.” England yawned.

America settled against England’s chest, resting his head so he could hear his heartbeat. He closed his eyes. “You’ve never been my nightmare.”

“Can you truthfully say never?”

Leaning up, America looked up at him. “Fine, maybe once or twice. That was a long time ago though.”

“There we go.” England sniffed. “Thought so.”

America shrugged, shifting so that he could lean up over him and press their foreheads together. The desire to draw away, clutched at his heart. Old memories of when he wasn’t even his own nation didn’t need to well up right now. England had the power to crush him if he’d wanted to then. It would take everything he had to fight back if England chose to fight him now. He’d lose the south and effectively become an economic colony to someone else, most likely England himself. The anxiety threatened to break through, but he held it back. He could feel the weakness in his arms from the long battles and the hatred coursing through his people. He trembled slightly, knowing that he should move, but unwilling to move out of the warm circle of England’s arms loosely draped around his back.

“Alfred.” England rubbed his fingers down the others spine, halting at its base before coming back up. “Are you ready to eat yet?”

“I haven’t been able to eat since the Battle of Fredericksburg...” He could taste the mud even now. He couldn’t remember the entirety of it at all and that made fear settle in his chest. The hollow feeling began to return.

“Try for me.” England said quietly. “You’re in the middle of a civil war. You need your strength.”

America was quiet for a moment and then he nodded. Getting up off the bed, he went to his wardrobe, reaching for pieces of his uniform.

“You are going to wear your uniform to breakfast?” England frowned.

“It doesn’t feel right not to wear it right now... nothing is normal. I can leave off the jacket if you’d rather not see it.” He stepped behind the dressing screen.

“I don't care either way.” He glanced at the chair where he had hung his coat. Shit. he didn’t have anything fresh to wear. “Will little Coleen be joining us?’

America glanced at him over the top of the screen and the buckling of his belt could be heard. “I don’t know if she’ll want to.” He stepped around the screen in his blue trousers and a white shirt. He shrugged into the jacket but didn’t button it closed. “Do you need to borrow something? We can get your clothes laundered.”

“That sounds preferable. Although, I doubt you'll have anything that fits me.” he sat up “Though I shall take you up on the offer. I feel rather filthy after that unnecessary jail time.”

“I could haul you up some hot water if you want a bath.” America went back to his wardrobe and pulled out a pair of trousers and a shirt.

“That actually sounds lovely.”

“Do you want a bath or food first?”

“Let’s have something to eat first. The water will take some time to heat.”

America nodded, handing off the clothes to England so he could change. “I’ll go see to Colleen and see what there is for breakfast.”

***

“Of course.” England nodded, eyes following America as he left the room. America was acting strange and in return England didn’t know how to respond. It left him feeling uncertain, something that he was unfamiliar with, unless things involved a certain American nation. Heaving a sigh, England began unbuttoning his shirt, eyeing the wash basin for a quick wash so he was mildly presentable for breakfast. Last night he had briefly considered staying for a week’s time with America, but it seemed that, that was not going to be the best of choices. Perhaps he would have to sneak away tonight.

He made his way down the stairs, catching the sound of voices in the dining room.

“You don’t have to eat with us, if you don’t want to,” America said to Colleen as she sat glaring at the table.

“I don’t mind you... I don’t understand him. He came into my room last night... he was nice to me...” Confusion washed across her face for a moment only to be immediately replaced with another scowl.

America opened his mouth to respond, but then noticed Arthur hovering in the doorway. “The food will be ready soon,” he said.

England had taken his time with dressing, glancing out the window and mapping out the street the best he could as he dressed. He didn’t have as much time as he would have preferred but it was something at least. “Shall we?” he arched a brow at the pair. “I don’t think the cook would appreciate her efforts going cold.”

The covered dishes were brought in, eggs and slices of ham. Colleen began eating with eagerness, throwing glances at England. America took a small portion and took small bites. The breakfast fell into an awkward silence filled with the sound of cutlery against china.

England watched the two carefully as he ate slowly, casting a concerned glance at America. He didn’t particularly want to admonish him in front of Colleen. “So, what is on the schedule for the day?”

“I need to take Colleen to the train station so she can go to New York. And I should go back to the Executive Mansion and speak with Mr. Lincoln...” America glanced up and caught England’s eye. “I may be able to send my apologies.”

“Perhaps I could attend as well?”

“Mr. Seward isn’t exactly your biggest supporter... your presence could cause a problem... It’s, uh...”

“It’s bad to be an Englishman around here,” interrupted Colleen. “The ones that are smart lie and pretend to belong to Wales, Scotland or my brother and me.”

America cleared his throat, giving the girl an exasperated look. “I could take you to your ambassador. Lord Lyons would likely be happy to see you again.”

England frowned at Colleen before looking at America “I introduced you as a nation to her Majesty. Am I not to be offered the same courtesy with your President?”

America rubbed the back of his neck. “If that’s what you want.”

“Unless there is a reason that you don’t want me to meet him,” England said tightly.

“No, you can meet him. We can take you after you get cleaned up. There won’t be time to wash your clothes if you want to go today... but we can probably freshen them.”

“That will have to suffice then I suppose” he said before taking a bite. Chewing slowly his gaze fell on Colleen but he remained silent.

The Irish girl stared back at him, lifting her chin with defiance. Her table manners could use some work, England thought, they were rough and arguably worse than America’s. She was an idea that started with the common folk, so he was not entirely surprised. Her gaze was pulled away when America said, “Do you have your bag ready? We should leave for the train soon.”

“Yes, I’m finished, and I don’t need you to walk me. I’m big enough,” she said, glancing at England, “You should make sure _he_ doesn’t get into trouble.”

“All right then, finish your breakfast while I get the tub upstairs for Arthur. Just let me know when you leave.” America got up after her acknowledgement and left his barely touched plate behind to go into the kitchen leaving them alone.

England stared at the plate with a frown. This needed to be addressed, yesterday. “Well, good luck on your travels today, Colleen.” England put his napkin on the table, pushing his chair back.

“The people that I’m sharing with America live in New York... although it’s not the same as home,” she said, getting up herself. “Good luck not getting chased out of town.” She walked past him to head to the stairs. She wasn’t wearing the boyish uniform that she’d donned when she’d been at the prison, but exchanged it for a patterned dress with a wide skirt. She turned in the doorway to give him a sarcastic curtsy.

England frowned, the urge to scold her and remind her who she was speaking to. Biting back his temper, he just shook his head. He had enough battles ahead of him that day he was certain. “Like I said, safe travels Colleen.” he said quietly.

She disappeared up the stairs, by the time America appeared with some buckets of hot water. “The tub is in my room upstairs.” America moved towards the stairs himself, careful not to slosh any of the buckets. He waited for England to follow. He walked to the tub and poured in the buckets, before heading back down for more.

“You really should get staff,” England called after him. He glanced at the water in the tub before back after America, debating. The boy was likely to see the bruises anyways. Pulling off his shirt and trousers he dropped them into a pile on the floor before stepping into the tub. Glancing down at himself he cringed. Victoria had been in a right state when the court physician had reported his findings. England was used to it, even marks of issues in his colonies and those of Scotland, Ireland, and Wales appeared on his body. Too many of those under his charge were being affected by the American civil war as well. Leaning down he grabbed a bucket, gathering hot water and lifting it to pour over his head. He groaned, it felt so good to be warm. He was always cold, but during times of strife it often got worse. England felt a sense of relief as he watched the water fall back into the tub. “Thank goodness we all got over that random spout of hysteria surrounding bathing.” He sighed. For over a century people had thought bathing was bad and people had avoided it as if it carried the plague. Though as research had finally displayed, that was probably the opposite. Grabbing another bucketful he poured it over his head. He really needed to convince America to eat something more today. Whether it be through tricks or ultimatums. He needed to make the boy eat. He was going to be useless in this war otherwise. Grabbing another bucketful of the cooling water he heard the heavy footsteps of America ascend the stairs with more water. “Is there a bar of soap I could use?”

America stepped into the room, blushing when he realized England was already in the tub. “Yes, there should be one on the wash stand.”

He brought the water buckets over and added it to the tub near England’s feet. “It’s not too hot is it?” He glanced up and his eyes widened, falling on the state of England’s body.

“No its fine, thank you.” he leaned down the grab another bucket of water, pausing when he noticed America had straightened. He looked at America to find the man staring at him and he looked at his own body. _Ah yes, well, I suppose my ribs and hips are a little more visible than normal. And then the bruises from the neverending, it seems, riots. The collapse of my economy as a result... the bruises are probably from the issues I am having there. That's also affecting all of my colonies And the scarlet fever epidemic really isn't doing anything to help the bruises... actually i think the one up my left thigh there is new. Did something happen in Australia? Something with the wool? Or had some battle happened here and enough Canadians and his other citizens perished under false names?_ “Alfred?”

“I didn’t realize you were unwell...” Seeming to remember England’s request for the soap he walked over to the washstand and picked it up. He brought it back and handed it to England. “I... is that because of me and Johnny?”

“It-” England paused. He didn't want to make America feel bad, but at the same time he didn’t think the other realized just how much his national problems affected the rest of the world. A nation's happenings were much more detrimental to the world as a whole compared to that of a colonies. “Well, yes, I would say most of it is,” he admitted as he took the soap and rubbed it between his hands to work up a lather. It really was indecent, him being this naked in front of America. But it seemed to make the most sense, the best way to get America to see why England just couldn’t get up and leave. Everyone was watching this civil war and trying to decide the same thing he was.

“I can try to talk to them to send more aid... maybe you can loan a naval escort? If Johnny wasn’t attacking my shipping...” He stepped away from England, wrapping his arms around himself and turning away. “He’s going to pay for what he’s done. This is such horse shit...” He slammed his hand against the post of the bed, the wood cracking under the force.

England remained silent for a moment, rubbing the suds on his person. “Alfred... I already know which way my government leans. And the French diplomats who have been presented to Victoria and Parliament express that their King Napoleon III sides with Britain’s decision in this matter.”

America sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. “I can’t fight you, France, and _him._ You might as well put me out of my misery right now.”

“Alfred stop it!” England snapped, dumping a bucket of water over himself. “Do not speak of such things do you hear me!?” A bundle of fear knotted itself in his belly as he watched the other curl in on himself. “You don’t speak that way do you hear me, Alfred!? Answer me!”

“I hear you,” he said to his knees. “Is France asking you to break my blockade? It’s not illegal... the so-called Confederate States are a rebel faction, not a nation.”

“Francis is not asking me to do anything... the nation of France offers to support the United Kingdom, if Her Majesty and the Parliament decided that breaking the blockade is what they want to do.” England stepped out of the tub, grabbing the towel folded beside it. “The...British government favors the Confederacy as a government, despite the slavery aspect... John did rather well in the diplomatic arena while he was visiting London... and it was no secret that he offered emotional support to... one of the Queen’s advisors during the beginning of the mourning period for Albert. It made him popular.” England wasn’t exactly sure when he came to terms with their being two Americas in some form or fashion. Sometime after he had slipped past the blockades and after talking to so many people, it had become even more obvious that something strange was going on.

“Of course, he’s honey tongued and far more interested in aristocracy and ‘tradition’. And he’s rubbing my nose in my own vanity, that’s what your newspapers say, right? The United States was too high handed so naturally some of the states had to rebel. It’s a ‘just cause for freedom’, what a sick joke...” America leaned his head back against the bed frame. “Is that why you were in the south, bringing him the good news? Or trying to anyway?”

“I told you that I am here to listen and watch. Why else would I have been dressed and carrying a journalist’s work satchel? I didn't even see him.”

“And where do you lean? Do you agree with what’s being said in Parliament? Mr. Lincoln says I should stop reading foreign newspapers... but I can’t help but think you’re of two minds about it. One paper talks about Johnny Reb’s ‘just cause’ because I infringed upon his rights and the next that I’m fighting to free people and end slavery... I just don’t know what to think.”

“I just want it to be over and done with.” England sighed, pulling on his trousers. “Nothing is black and white, Alfred.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” A quick intake of breath and rubbing his temples. “I want it to be over too, it can’t be over until I’m whole again.”

“Civil wars are a nasty thing,” he murmured as he grabbed his shirt, pulling it on carefully.

“Things won’t ever be the same...” America pushed himself up off the floor and began to button his uniform coat.

England's fingers faltered over their buttons as he watched America straighten up. “You told me you would eat this morning... and you didn't.”

“I said I would try. I tried. Don’t worry about it.”

“I will have my concerns where I damn please them to be!” England snapped “And you barely put forth any effort! I am not daft! But if you want him to win because you make yourself sick, then I guess that's that!”

America looked at him, fingers pausing on the buttons at his throat. He came over towards England and gently touched one of the bruises on England’s chest that was still visible through the open collar on his shirt. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of England’s mouth. “I’m doing my best... but I guess I have to be better than best, huh?” he said, pulling away.

“Still as cocky as ever,” England mumbled looking away with hot cheeks. France did such things all the time yet it never ruffled him in such a manner.

A small smile ghosted across America’s face. “We should finish getting ready if you want to meet Mr. Lincoln.”

“Well, of course.” England sniffed, grabbing his vest and buttoning it hastily. Silence fell over the room until England was done, the island nation hyper aware of America's eyes on his every move. Grabbing his jacket England cleared his throat. “Shall we?”

Tightening the buckle on his belt, the letters US, gleaming in brass, America nodded. Together they left the house and started down the road. The noise from the army encampment was louder today, the sound of training and drills echoing down the streets even as people went about their daily business. The capitol building appeared to be under construction, scaffolds set up and work proceeding on a large dome.

America lifted his chin, putting on a show of much more confidence than he had in the privacy of his home. It didn’t take long until they were being ushered into the Executive Mansion, the home of the serving president. “Where’s the President?” America asked a passing servant.

“In his office, sir.” The young man said. America thanked him and they continued on. The hallway was filled with people going this way and that and as they approached the president’s office there was a stack of papers and inventions piled outside of it. There was a mess of artistic supplies here and there as well.

“Mr. Marchant has been working on a painting of Mr. Lincoln signing the Emancipation Proclamation. Oh... and try not to bring up family. One of Mr. Lincoln’s sons, Willie, he died last year around this time... just stay on business.” America turned the knob on the door and stepped inside, ushering England in a moment later. Lincoln was sitting at the desk, a man seated in the chair on the other side. “Mr. Seward,” America said, “if you would excuse us, I have someone very important to introduce to the president.” The Secretary of State gave England a curious, almost frowning look, his appearance overall looking strained, but he nodded and got up from his seat to leave the room.

“Who have you brought, America?” asked Lincoln.

“He wanted to be presented to you. This is Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.”

“A pleasure Mr. President, my people have heard much about you across the water.” England smiled with an incline of his head, his back rigid. In Europe he would have bowed to the head of a nation and he almost did. But here, he was certain it would be frowned upon.

Lincoln stood up, coming around the desk to shake hands with England. His height was his most striking feature, even taller than America! “Thank you for coming, I hope that you haven’t read what they’ve been writing about me too closely. However, I suppose that is my burden as a President. Was there any particular purpose to your visit?”

“Nothing in particular sir. It's just standard practice for the head of every nation to meet the personified nation of other countries. I figured I was in the area, and Alfred has already met her Majesty, Queen Victoria, so I should introduce myself.” He smiled. “Any actual conversations of urgency I had are actually with Mrs. Lincoln.”

“With the First Lady?” Lincoln seemed a little confused and he glanced at America, who shrugged. “Mary is probably in the sitting room. I do not know if she is well enough to receive visitors.”

The sound of running feet were heard and the door burst open a minute later, admitting a ten year old boy who looked like he’d been playing in the gardens. “Alfred!” he said, running up to America and stopping at his side. “Are you here to play with me?”

“Not today, Tad. I saw Bud on the way in though, maybe he could play with you?”

The youngest of the Lincoln boys pouted, crossing his arms. “He thinks he’s too big to play with me now.”

“What about Holly?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“Why don’t you go find him. I’ll try to come visit you later, okay?” America conjured up a smile and patted the boy on the head. The child seemed satisfied and ran over to his father for a hug before disappearing back into the hall, the sound of something falling over in his wake. “He’s kind of a whirlwind,” America whispered to England. “I’ll escort Arthur to see Mary... I’ll ask her first though?”

Lincoln nodded and they took their leave of him as the man sat down at his desk. “Send in the Cabinet if you will.” America nodded and they left the room, ushering in a group of men in somber, professional suits.

“Mr. Lincoln tries to hear everyone... it keeps him really busy,” America said, directing them through the house towards another door. “We had to put up this wall so that he could get any quiet whatsoever.”

“Sounds like court.” England sighed. “Never a single moment of privacy.”

“I guess it’s kind of like that,” mused America, opening the door. After they entered the living quarters of the house the noise definitely stilled. They entered a large common room that served as a parlor and library at once. In a chair near the window sat a woman, she was wearing black and staring out the window. America gestured for England to stay by the door while he approached her. She looked up at him and gave a sad smile.

“Hello Alfred, trying to escape business are you?” she asked.

“No, I just have an unexpected guest. He wants to meet you. He’s like me... but Britain.” Mary Todd Lincoln turned in her seat to look at England, surprise on her face.

“Of course, I will meet him,” she said. Offering her a hand, she stood up, trying to straighten her skirts and cap. She stopped in front of England and offered a hand. When he took it she squeezed his fingers and dipped a little in a curtsy. “I apologize for not being in a better state to receive you. Alfred, go find a servant and get them to bring some tea.” She shooed America with a flourish and invited England to sit near the windows.

“It is all right.” England smiled, sitting in the chair. “That is one of the reasons her Majesty asked me to seek you out, she felt as if you two would be of similar mindset.” He folded his hands as he sat down. “I have no desire to waste your time, Mrs. Lincoln, but I would ask a personal favor before I delve into matters of state.” England eyed the woman carefully. She had the same look in her eyes that many of his past Queens had, those that had experienced a child's death.

“A personal favor? I wager it has something to do with Alfred, then?” she said.

England flushed and coughed into a fist to clear his throat “Yes Ma’am. He..he still isn't eating. And he doesn't listen to me. Even as a child he proved difficult.”

She leaned back in her seat. “I can’t begin to imagine how he feels. The poor boy doesn’t know if he’s still all or just the north. When they brought him back from Fredericksburg... he wasn’t conscious for three days.” Mary grew silent, then looked back at England. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“Civil wars affect nations in a strange way, Ma’am. I suffered everything from fits to rages where I almost killed my monarch and members of Parliament.” He shook his head “It's not something anybody can truly help with. But I am guessing Alfred is not eating from guilt or side affects of having a mind in two places. But you managed to at least get him to concede to a cook, which is more staff than I ever managed. So I was hoping you could convince him to at least eat what the poor woman is toiling over.”

“Oh dear, I know what he’s been doing with it. He sends it out to the soldiers that are stationed on the Potomac. Congress is being as tightfisted as ever and the soldiers rarely get a good meal.” She paused when America reappeared, dropping down into the other chair. She eyed him. “What’s this about you still not eating your meals?” The stern motherly tone got America’s attention and he looked at England as though he’d betrayed some secret.

“Mary, I...”

“How are you going to protect your people if you look like you’re about to collapse? There’s nothing either of us can do about those blowhards that constantly try my husband’s patience, but you can at least eat a ration’s portion. Promise me.”

“I...”

“Please don’t make me replace the stars and stripes with the stars and bars. Nobody wants that here.” America looked down at his shoes, head drooping.

“All right... but I still want more food to be given to the soldiers that are fighting to hold me together.”

“You know that my husband is working on that.” America nodded. He threw a glance at England that said, _you just had to get your way didn’t you?_

A smile quirked England's lips up. “Thank you, Ma’am.” he smiled.“I appreciate that some of our concerns lay in the same place.”

She smiled back at him, smoothing her skirts as one of the servants appeared with a tea tray. “Now, if you two would join me. There must be something diverting to speak of in the past. I would prefer to be transported from the day.”

The pair spent a few hours telling her stories of places they’d been and things that they’d seen. By the end of it, America’s smile was almost back to normal. They left as the shadows were growing longer, making their way back to America’s house.

“She is an interesting lady,” England commented as they got back to the house. “Sensible.”

“She’s a force of nature. You heard her story about how she and Abe met, their fondness for each other isn’t for show. Once he left a meeting during a thunderstorm to be with her so she wouldn’t be frightened.” America smiled a little, although the despair was still there, floating beneath the surface. “I suppose I should ask for dinner to be started.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” England nodded crossing his arms “It's time for _both_ of us to eat.”

America nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving England in the parlor. When he returned, America dropped down into one of the chairs, pulling off the more constricting pieces of his uniform. “What are you going to tell Her Majesty about them?” he asked, as he tugged off his boots.

“I was hoping for more personal time with Mrs. Lincoln, but it will have to suffice.” England shrugged, avoiding the question as he undid the buttons of his jacket.

“You could have said, I could have helped the president,” America said, getting up to add more logs to the fire.

“She seemed content with the situation.” England yawned, arching his back in a stretch until it popped. Rolling his neck he cracked it before sitting down, crossing one long leg over the other.

“Well, you might have another opportunity tomorrow.” America dropped back down in the chair, the wood creaking in the wing-backed chair. He stretched his legs out in front of him to put his feet close to the fire. “I hate this cold, but I can’t exactly wish for summer...” He leaned his head on one of the wings and frowned into the fire.

“Winter has its benefits,” England said carefully. It had been plaguing him since London. He had almost bedded the Confederate States of America. He had wanted to, but for some reason it had felt like a betrayal. Why he did not know. England perched his chin in his hand, eyes sliding over America. The thoughts had plagued him the entire voyage over. What would he do if he ran into them? Either of them? He had committed himself into giving America what he wanted, hoping to satiate his own curiosity. Kill two birds with one stone.

America looked up at him, feeling his gaze. “What?”

“Hmm. Just thinking.” England shook his head, free hand resting on his belly.

Taking his words at their face value, America settled into his chair and closed his eyes. He slumped over after a few minutes, sleep taking him. Every so often, his body would tense, expressions chasing each other over his face before it would smooth in sleep again. The cook stepped into the room some time later, “Oh, I hate to wake him...” she said, putting a hand to her cheek.

“I'll wake him. He’ll sleep better with a fully belly.” England pushed himself to his feet. Looking at the woman, he waited until she turned and left the room. Walking over to America’s chair he bent at the waist, reaching out to shake the others shoulder “Alfred, come on now. You promised Mrs. Lincoln.”

America started, jolting awake. He blinked up at England with bleary blue eyes. “Where am I? What time is it?”

“You’re in your house and it's time for supper,” England said flatly, standing up straight.

Blinking, America ran a hand through his hair. “Right, I guess I was dreaming. Let’s go eat since I promised.” He got to his feet and walked past England into the dining room. The meal was a beef stew, the hot container steaming from the center of the table. America ladled some into his bowl and turned the spoon so England could serve himself as well.

Scooping a portion into his bowl England sniffed in appreciation “She certainly knows what she is doing,” he muttured.

***

America stared down at his bowl for a while and then tentatively picked up the spoon. He hadn’t realized how hungry he had been until the food touched his tongue. Try as he might, he couldn’t help scouring the bowl in only a few minutes.

“Well it's a good thing she made plenty.” England turned the handle of the ladle back towards America, relief relaxing his shoulders.

He hesitated, but added a little more. He felt hollow and he knew that the food wouldn’t fill him up. “Even though the war is on... there are some things to do in town. Was there anything you wanted to see?”

“Not in particular.” England shook his head “Unless there is something that you fancied?”

“I haven’t been much for socializing... I’ve been forced to go to events a few times, but I bowed out as soon as possible.” He finished the second bowl and set it aside.

“We could go out or stay in. The choice is really up to you. I’m but a mere political prisoner remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten. And I still have questions by the way, but it can wait.” He pushed around his spoon. “Let’s stay here.”

“Whatever you say, Mister Jones.” England shrugged.

***

The dinner was cleared away, and they moved back into the parlor. America settled down at the writing desk, muttering about needing to finish a few letters. The mantle clock ticked away the time, England amusing himself with a book from America’s shelves while waiting for him to finish. The sun was long gone by the time the nib stopped scratching across sheets of paper. America stretched and turned around. “What do you think of Mr. Melville’s book?” he said.

“That man was rather obsessed with a whale,” England said peering up over the pages.

America laughed, the sound getting cut off as if he surprised himself. “That’s one way to describe it.” He came over to where England was sitting on the coach and dropped down beside him. “I told you I would have authors one day.”

“That you did.” England hummed quietly. Scooting over, he draped his legs over America's lap, leaning against the arm of the couch. It was improper and questionable, but England couldn't think of a better way to initiate contact with the man. His stocking feet rested near America’s warmth.

America’s hands settled on England’s legs, not moving and just the slightest touch. He met England’s eyes. Slowly, his hand travelled down the trouser leg and hitching it up, hooked into the hem of England’s sock, slowly drawing it off. He broke his gaze to focus on England’s foot as he pressed his thumbs into the arch, massaging it gently.

England's hands clenched the book tightly in response, swallowing. “I may have to take you with me.” He cleared his throat.

America looked up at him, concern crossing his features. “Does your foot hurt?”

“About a month or so of walking will do that to a person.” England sighed, turning the page “And then running from Union soldiers certainly didn't help the fact.” He shrugged.

America tugged at England’s other sock, dropping it to the floor. “If you had asked for a pass I would have considered giving you one. Then you wouldn’t be sneaking around. It’s the sneaking we take issue with, not journalism.” His jaw tightened and he pressed a little harder on England’s other foot.

“Dammit!” England jerked his foot back. “Don't break my foot, Alfred!” England snapped. “And it wasn't sneaking! I was simply walking!”

America gave him an apologetic look, sighing and leaning his head back on the back of the couch. England wasn’t going to be straight with him apparently, not about this. “All right. I don’t want to talk about it anyway. I didn’t mean to hurt you...”

“It's fine.” England stretched his legs back out. “Just remember to watch that strength of yours.”

***

America went back to work, the silence strange, but not entirely uncomfortable. The fire flickered, throwing warmth against him. The clock on the mantle chimed. Something that he’d been afraid to say huddled in his chest. England was here. He’d felt so cold and empty for so long. He said, “Mrs. Wilson, my cook, has probably gone home by now. She won’t come back until morning.”

England hummed in acknowledgment, scooting further down the couch, the book still in front of his nose. “Are you saying it's time to turn in?”

America’s fingers brushed over England’s ankle bone. What would happen? He’d wanted it before, more than he thought possible in New York. Then it had all gone to hell. He couldn’t bear for it to happen again. “I suppose I am.”

“That's a shame.” England yawned, closing the book. He let the heavy book dangle from his fingertips, watching America.

America watched him for a moment, before shifting, using his grip on England’s ankle to drag him closer on the sofa. He leaned over him. He was losing everything, why should he bother to be afraid of this anymore? “Do you have a better notion?” he asked.

“As long as you don't start something you won't finish” England warned, letting the book rest on the floor. Laying back against the couch a England stared up at America, giving him the chance to make up his mind.

America bit his lip, running his hand up England’s leg and settling on his hip. This might be the last time. The only time. He closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to England’s mouth. “I’m not spoiling my second chance,” he whispered.

“As you wish.” England murmured, pulling America down flush against him, kissing America hard. Skilled hands made their way down America's back to squeeze at his ass. “I hope you don't need your voice tomorrow,” he hissed, biting below America's ear as he locked his knees around America's hips.

America gasped, turning his head to chase England’s mouth with his own. The kiss was rough, sloppy as his hands went to the buttons on England’s waistcoat, pulling a few loose in his haste. England tugged at his shirt, his fingers finding the skin of America’s back. He could think of nothing else as he put his mouth to England’s neck, brushing his lips across the skin. His heart pounded as he struggled out of his shirt, then he remembered why he’d been so reluctant for England to see him change. A red welt as if someone had taken a hot iron to his skin ran across his stomach and wrapped around his sides. England’s fingers went to it. “It only hurts sometimes... not now, it’s all right.” The words came out quickly. He didn’t want England to stop.

“So that's where your mark is going to show..” England murmured tracing the skin around it. “Curious.”

“Curious?” he said, his fingers landing on the buttons of England’s shirt.

“Just a thought.” England shrugged, allowing America to undo his shirt. Letting it drop to the couch cushions England wound his arms arms round America's neck, fingers winding in his hair, tugging. “Soooo, shall I begin leaving incriminating marks here while we rut on the couch or upstairs?” he purred, running his tongue along his teeth, a wicked light entering green eyes.

“I want you in my bed,” America replied, unable to come up with anything clever. He was tired and England’s look was sending sparks beneath his skin. Clutching at the back of England’s thighs he lifted him off the couch, muscles tensing as he walked out of the parlor and toward the stairs. His arms trembled slightly, but he was determined not to drop him. It became a tall order with whatever England was doing to his neck and he faltered near the door to his bedroom, hand continuously missing the knob.

“How should I take you, hm?” England purred in his ear. It was the sort of things he’d always imagined hearing, ever since England first kissed him back. “The bed? The floor? Perhaps the wall?” England gasped as the America's free hand gripped the doorframe and it cracked in his fist. “Fuck, Alfred!” England groaned. Yanking his hand from his hair, England himself grabbed the doorknob, pushing it open.

America walked in through the door, closing it behind them. He leaned back against it, trying not to let the shaking in his body show. He could feel it now, the effort it was taking, more than he would have ever needed before. The other slipped down, touching his feet to the floor and pressed him against the door. He wanted to ask England why he seemed in such a hurry, but the question in that regard died on his lips when England’s fingers dipped below the hem of his pants. “You weren’t serious about the wall were you?” He wrapped an arm around the back of England’s neck, not trusting his knees to hold him up.

“You mean fucking you up against a wall so gravity helps?” England directed him away from the door and backed America up until the back of his knees hit the bed and forced him backwards. “Such a different experience. But, not tonight. I want you to be able to think at least a little tomorrow morning.”

America’s back hit the blankets and he moved back, England catching him by the pant leg and tugging, pulling them down off his underclothes. They got caught on his socks, but England made quick work of those, leaving him for a moment to loosen his own trousers on his hips. America sat up, putting his hands on England’s hips brushing his thumbs against England’s stomach. America watched him, licking his lips, mouth having gone dry. Slowly he took the top button of England’s trousers and began undoing the fly. Hooking his fingers in the hem he pushed at the fabric, fingers brushing on the soft skin of England’s hips.

***

England caught him, dragging America into another kiss. Knees finding purchase on the mattress he bent America backward until blond hair hit the blankets. Coaxing America's tongue into a personal dance, England greedily swallowed up moans that tumbled from his partner. The last pieces of clothing that clung to human form fell, forgotten, onto the hardwood floor, sliding beneath the bed. England gave little thought to America's uncertain hands, jumping from one place on his body to the next as if looking for the magic spot. Pulling back, England made quick work of America's neck, eyeing the trembling of America's lower lip, wet with saliva as his back arched sharply. 

"Relax, Alfred. I've got you." England promised. _He's gorgeous._ England's thoughts paused, taking in the scene before him. America, tanned from days, months, of traveling west was a tan that England could never hope to achieve, contrasted starkly with the white sheets as he pressed his cheek into them as he tried to muffle a moan out of embarrassment. The mark from his civil war reminded him to be careful, America’s own bruises showing against his skin. England pushed down the tenderness that warned him to think about what he was doing. He wanted it. America wanted it. They weren’t waiting anymore.

Long legs sought for purchase that England was hell-bent on making sure they never found. The sheets dampened as sweat gathered on America's brow. Blue eyes, dark with lust met green and he reached for England as if to reciprocate the actions, yet England shook his head pulling him into another kiss. "I want to watch you," he admitted to them both as they lay side by side.

Immediately, a large hand grabbed his, stalling his task of threading into wheat-colored hair, yet no resistance was given to the fingers that were currently gliding down America's belly, slowly making their way over sharp hip bones to touch him. America bit his lip as England’s fingers wrapped around him, a soft gasp breaking through. _I can do this for you._

Staring down at the other, England heaved a sigh, pulling at America's hair. That one section had never laid flat. “Come here.”

Pushing himself up on his elbows, America looked at him expectantly.

Pulling him up just a little England kissed him, not bothering to make it soft. He didn't have the patience for it anymore. America pressed against him, England hooking his arms through his and rolling them so America was flat on his back against the mattress.

America’s hands felt so good on his skin as they moved over his legs, his back, squeezing at his hips. England could forget in that moment. He hoped America could too, he was going to help him. It wasn’t just curiosity anymore.

England hummed, fingers hooking underneath America's knees to lift his legs as his mouth focused on America's neck. America shifted, letting England fit between his legs and gasping at the friction that being so close created. America wrapped his arms around his neck.

England had stopped moving, resting his arms on America’s chest. Cautiously, America opened his eyes. “You’re too rigid, you need to relax,” England said.

***

“I’m trying.” America said, voice sounding raspy in his own ears. He couldn’t help but feel nothing was ever going to be the same again. He couldn’t puzzle out whether this was a good or bad thing. England sighed, sliding a hand between them. America’s mind went blank for a moment when he touched him. England’s fingers moved slowly, ratcheting up the heat in his belly. America buried his fingers in England’s hair.

“Easy. Get a grip on the headboard.” Blinking at him, America reached up and took hold of the rungs on the headboard. England leaned back, desire heavy in his gaze as he looked at him. America’s heart thudded in his chest. England grinned at him. “This will make it easier for you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Shhh...” England said, shifting lower on the bed and getting comfortable between America’s legs. He pressed a kiss to his stomach first then lower and lower. America gasped. Pressing a hand on America’s stomach, England paused. “Be still.” Laying his head back, America squeezed his eyes shut, feeling each of the sensations that England was sending through his body. When he’d been young and impressionable he’d heard the soldiers talk about such actions, but he’d never imagined...

“I’m...” England didn’t pull back, intensifying his actions until America cried out. His body felt boneless, floating. England slid back up his body, dragging the back of his hands across his mouth and claimed his mouth again. America pressed back against him. If he never had to leave this bed again, it would be bliss.

“There we go, now you won't make such a quick mess of yourself during the good part” England breathed, before leaving a bite mark on America’s jaw. Dragging his nails lightly down the others sides, making sure to avoid the new mark he glanced around the room. “You don't have any oils do you?”

Trying to make his brain think clearly, America wrapped his arms around England’s shoulders and said, “There might be something on the wash stand... people have been offering me so many medicines. Would one of those work?”

England hesitated, pulling back. “Well, it's going up your arse,” he muttered getting up and waking over go the stand, picking up multiple bottles. His fingers settled around a small earthen jar with as cork top. Pulling the cork loose he pulled out a small greasy piece of parchment with slanted writing on it. “This will do.”

Nerves settled in America’s stomach. “I guess you know what you’re doing, right?” He watched the line of England’s back as he made his selection and then couldn’t take his eyes off him as he wandered back. He wanted to touch every inch of him. Would there be time?

“Did you really just ask me that? After all your accusations about me and my bed partners.” England gave him a deadpanned look. He kneeled onto the bed, crossing his arms. “Honestly!”

America leaned up and nudged England’s arms apart until he was clinging to his shoulders. He didn’t say anything, a little annoyed that England would bring up anyone else. England needed to focus on him and only on him. To be in the place where nothing could touch them. He slid his hands down England’s sides, fingers brushing against his narrow hip bones. He pressed his mouth against England’s as his hand slid between England’s legs to touch him. An aggressive sound bubbled up in England’s throat and America found himself tumbling backwards, England on top of him and claiming the kiss with force.

“Fuck!” England bit out, twining his fingers in his hair to yank America’s head back. His teeth found the skin beneath the others neck, leaving marks that no uniform collar could hope to cover. Brushing America's hand aside he slid his hand between the pair of them. “No matter how much I prepare you, this is going to be extremely uncomfortable and you will have discomfort sitting or walking tomorrow,” he warned.

“Are you trying to talk me out of it or something?” His body was trembling, but he held onto England, one hand brushing across his cheek. He summoned up a grin. “I won’t break. This isn’t something that could break me.”

“I never said anything of the sort. I was merely warning you,” England said quietly, grabbing the pot and dipping a finger into it. He pulled America into a heated kiss, twining his tongue with the others, a battle of dominance erupting between the pair. England's noises of approval mixes with Alfred’s cries of pleasure as England worked him back into a pleasure filled frenzy. Slick skin on skin providing the perfect amount for friction as America writhed beneath him. England watched America's face as his hand slipped between them, doing his best to prepare the other. America gasped and moaned in turn, as if unsure if to accept or reject the foreign happenings to his body. “Are you ready?” England asked.

He thought of saying something, but could only nod, taking a deep breath as England pushed against him. He squeezed his eyes shut, it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be, England being careful. They both breathed out at once as England settled against him. Then he moved and America could only hold on. England grinned, when sparks shot through America’s body sending warm pleasure and arousal dancing across his skin. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. He just wanted more of it.

America’s hands slammed against the headboard to avoid digging his fingers into England’s skin. His touch seemed to be everywhere at once, England’s breath fanning out against his skin with each ragged exhale. He was saying something, but it was too quiet to hear over the sound of his pulse in his ears. Pleasure and pain ratcheted up with each of England’s movements, the sounds coming from his own throat urging him on. The tension built deep in his belly until pleasure burst spreading through his limbs. England actions were relentless, using America's body until he cried out himself, collapsing onto America’s chest. Slowly, as he tried to catch his breath, America wrapped an arm around him. They lay together, trying to catch their breath.

“Far too long,” England murmured, pressing his forehead against America's damp chest. His skin was sweat slicked beneath America’s hand. Turning his head, England looked up at America “You did better than I thought you would.” He raised an eyebrow at something above America’s head and America craned his neck to look. The wood of the headboard had cracked under his fingers. He looked back at England, an apology on his lips, but he seemed pleased.

Running England’s hair through his fingers, America relaxed against the pillows. “It wasn’t as bad as you made it out to be.” His body felt heavy, sleep tugging him down into its own embrace.

“At least we got to do something of our own accord for now.” England murmured “That's not always the case.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Choosing me,” America said, emotion catching in the back of his throat. England’s eyes dropped down to his chest, thoughts flitting over his face. America’s eyes felt heavy and he was having a hard time keeping them open.

“It’s all right to sleep now,” England said, letting America wrap him up in his arms and lay his head against his chest.

***

Watching America sleep, England lay wrapped up with the other, desperate to stay and sleep, but aware that such an action wasn't possible. Unsure of how much time passed, England wormed his way from America's embrace, grabbing and wetting a cloth to clean himself and America before tucking the blankets around the boy. On tiptoe, England maneuvered about the room carefully, redressing. The empire paused more than once to stare longingly at the sleeping figure in bed. He really didn't want to leave, but staying here would do neither of them any good.

Pausing in his dressing, England walked over to the sleeping form, this wasn't the first time he had gotten up and left a lover's bed after the deed was done. Why was this one so hard? Leaning down he stole one more kiss from America's mouth, hesitating as the man shifted, hands seemingly searching. Shrugging into his jacket England pulled a spare piece of paper off the table and tapped the pen. Short simple.

I don't want to, but I have to. You have to understand. Arthur

He sat the note on the bedside table. Putting the pen back England slipped into his shoes, and stirred the fire before sliding out of the room, and closing the door quietly to disappear into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, they can't take it back now... 
> 
> In the next installment, England visits Canada who is very worried about the situation with America.
> 
> Please let us know your thoughts, theories, and feelings! Also, if you haven't done it yet, please leave us a kudo! We love hearing from you!


	21. A Southern Excursion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England continues his journey across North America trying to make a decision. Should he have done what he did? Should he choose a side? However, his journey just brings along more questions. For one thing, what exactly is Canada doing on a train platform in the United States?

_March 1863_

_Northern Virginia_

Confederacy could feel it in his stomach. Something was different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he knew it was there. A knowledge of _something_ that he hadn’t had before. Waking up in the woods near the lines wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting of his morning at any rate and the holes in his memory bothered him. That was where he’d gained something. Sighing, he pushed himself up out of the cold winter frost and fixed his cap back on his head. He dusted off his uniform shirt. Interesting, he must have been spying on Union. He tugged off the blue jacket and dropped it into the dirt where it belonged. He gave the code word to the pickets, grateful that it was still dark enough in the morning light that they wouldn’t notice that his trousers were a little too blue to be his own uniform.

He grinned when he pushed open the flap of his tent and saw someone sitting there. “Matthew, finally decided to dump our Yankee brother on his ass where he belongs?”

Canada frowned at him, not answering. “Where have you been? You slipped out several weeks ago and no one has seen you.” Confederacy paused at that, pushing his glasses up his nose and frowning. Weeks?

“I don’t recall, but I’m sure it was of great import to the cause.” He went to his trunk and began pulling out a proper uniform.

“Johnny, I need you to try and remember. Did you go north?”

“Why on earth would I be in the north? Did you get into that bad case of bourbon?” Confederacy rolled his eyes. Canada was always asking him questions like that. Did you go north? Which side of the battlefield were you on? Do you remember where you got that Union sidearm? “I’m not lying, I don’t remember. You know that happens. Hey, what would it take to borrow some more of your officers?”

“They’re British officers and they shouldn’t be down here anyway.” Canada sighed and stood up. “I’m done being in your camp, I’m going home.”

“Just going home?” He threw a look over his shoulder and Canada returned his look with a cold one of his own.

“I have nothing to do with any of this.”

“When I’m free, you will, dear brother,” Confederacy said, patting Canada on the shoulder. He didn’t even say goodbye as he shoved off Confederacy’s arm and walked out into the camp. He was in plain clothes and never seemed to have a problem going back and forth. Confederacy shrugged and turned back to his clothes, putting on something proper.

***

The train station was mostly a hodgepodge of wounded soldiers propped up by their comrades and a few people in civilian clothing, passes clutched in their hands for various business on the other side of the lines. England could overhear some of them talking. Women were carrying bundles for prisoners of war and trying to decide what they would say to get husbands, fathers, brothers, or sons out of the other army’s hands. The soldiers were a sorry sight indeed. One man could have been dead for all anyone could tell, no one on the train platform willing to make the judgment. Despite the sorry state of everyone, there still seemed to be a patriotic undertone. They wanted the Union to endure.

The sight of a familiar blond head on the platform, nearly sent England scrambling back into the smokey interior of the train station. However, upon closer observation it wasn’t America. “Matthew?” he said, voice rising just a little. The young man turned and his suspicion proved correct. Canada blinked back at him, surprise evident on his face.

“Arthur? What are you doing here?”

England relaxed as his suspicions were laid to rest. Straightening his hat he stepped out into the crowds, mauvering towards Matthew. “I am just visiting.” He smiled looking over Matthew “You are looking well.”

Canada gave him a wan smile. “Good to know that I look better than I feel.” He looked at England as though his words had just sunk in. “Strange time to visit... I’ve been trying to keep them on my side of the border to comply with the Foreign Enlistment Act... it’s not easy...” He lowered his head, worry crossing his face.

“I am afraid nothing is easy at the moment.” England sighed, laying his hand on Canada’s shoulder. “Although, I am just as surprised to see you as you are to see me here.”

“I’ve been trying to keep an eye on him. Well, whichever one I can find. Have you... have you seen him?”

“Alfred?”

“I haven’t seen him in some time.” Canada’s voice was quiet. “I’ve been looking...”

“I saw him just shy of a month ago.”

“I know he’s not all right, but... is he holding up at least?”

“Yes.” England nodded “There was a bit of a hurdle, but it was taken care of promptly.”

Canada nodded, crossing his arms as the wind picked up. A train whistle could be heard in the distance and people began milling around. “Which way are you headed? I’m going up to Ohio to catch a ferry back home.”

England hesitated before responding. “South.”

“Are you trying to find Johnny?”

“No.” England shook his head “I am merely watching and learning. I have spent the last month up north watching and now I shall head down south before returning home.”

“Well, be careful. He’s taken to conscripting British citizens. He was always doing it, but it’s more join or be jailed now.” The train heading north rolled into the depot. A space was cleared so lines of Confederate prisoners could be marched out. Canada didn’t look at them, pulling his hat down over his forehead as if someone might recognize him. “I better get on the train, perhaps you could come up before leaving?”

“Of course, Matthew. I will certainly try. I was hoping to have you over in London again sometime soon. I miss your company.” He smiled. _Perhaps I will need to find John, if he is truly forcing my people to conscript we have things to discuss. Well, if it can be kept even tempered._

“Maybe when this is all over... it makes me worried to leave right now.” He stepped forward, throwing an arm around England’s shoulders in a hug. “Goodbye.”

England hugged him back, holding onto the other for a bit longer after the younger moved to pull away. “As long as you are keeping up with your practicing. I except you should be ready for simple duel in the near future.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, hurrying to catch the train before it pulled away.

England watched after Canada for a moment before adjusting his grip on his case. Canada shouldn’t have been down here. He should be remaining his own colony. _I shall need to send a letter that instructs him as such.He needs to be as far removed from this disaster as possible._ Making sure he had everything, England maneuvered through the crowd carefully, making sure to keep an eye out for pickpockets and the like. It seemed that he would not be able to avoid the Confederacy any longer. He had done so well for his first couple of months here and then he ran into Alfred by accident and now it seems that he would have to track the other down.

***

_April 3, 1863_

_Richmond, Virginia_

_Capital of the Confederate State of America_

Confederacy sat on the front steps of President Davis’s house staring at the cobblestones on the street. Broken glass and refuse still littered the streets after the riots. He could feel the leanness in his own stomach. Union appeared ready to starve him to death, regardless of what that meant for the people. “How can you claim that they belong to you and treat them so?” he grumbled. It was the blockade. He needed to do something. The goods coming up from Texas were taking too long, the distance too far to be reliable. His frown deepened as he pondered. Why didn’t England just recognize him already?! Why was France still resting on his laurels!? A pair of footsteps crunched on the mess in the street, stopping. Confederacy glanced up, ready to tell the person he had no money left to give them. He blinked, then slowly stood up. “Arthur, what a pleasant surprise. Pardon the mess, there was an incident.”

“Always an excuse isn't it?” England sighed as he stared at Confederacy sitting on the steps. England crossed his arms and scowled. Likely he’d been hearing tall tales and Confederacy was eager to set him straight.

“Come, we can get out of the street. There are not many luxuries left, but I’m sure I can scrounge something. I hope you take word back home for the stubborn and ungentlemanly way Alfred is conducting himself.” He waved a hand for England to follow him and started up the steps.

“I think Alfred is behaving quite well,” England said flatly as he followed him inside. “He is much more in my favor right now than you currently are.”

Confederacy turned to face him, adjusting his glasses. “How can that be possible? And that being said, I am rather cross with you as well.”

“Really?” England arched a brow. “You thought I would turn a blind eye to how you are treating British citizens?”

“If they want to live here, they can serve me. Many of them signed up of their own free will, I’ll have you know.” He crossed his arms. “And as you say you are fine with Alfred? To be an Englishman in the streets up there is to be a pariah. He hates you.”

“Oh, I am positive he doesn't hate me.”

A glare spread across his face. “I would have heard if you allied with him.”

“I didn't say anything of the sort,” England snapped“If you were listening I said that I know he doesn't hate me.”

Huffing, Confederacy turned on his heel and walked deeper into the house. “I have no interest in gossip or riddles.” They entered a dining room and he ordered a servant to find something for his guest to eat. He dropped down into the seat at the head of the table. “I do not particularly care how that Yankee feels about you.” He hoped that the lie didn’t show on his face. “Since you are here, I hope it means that you’ve decided on the rightness of my cause. He has overstepped his bounds and bungled the war. He should give up with grace while he still has some dignity left.”

“Originally I was planning to convince her Majesty to side with you. But then I heard you were imprisoning my people and treating them with harsh conditions.”

Raising an eyebrow, Confederacy said, “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. My enlistment of expatriates is well within the rules of foreign enlistment.”

“And jailing British citizens is a sure fire way to get in with the Crown?” England stared at him.

“If you recognized me then the war would be over and it’ll be a moot point.” He turned his head when the servant returned, whispering something in his ear. “Yes, thank you.” He turned back to England. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you. We gave the entirety of the pantry to the poor ladies of Richmond. However, it’s possible that a supply train will be coming.” His voice was edged with hope, it was rarely a given that the train would arrive without being ransacked by Union soldiers.

“That is fine. I had no plans of staying long.”

“You came all the way to Richmond to tell me you won’t be staying long?” His face fell, disappointment obvious. “At least spend a day with me, although it was not always salubrious to either of us... I have missed the time we spent together.” He leaned forward trying to catch England’s hand with his own.

England stiffened but allowed the other to grab his hand. He stared for just a moment before sighing. “You have a day.”

A smile spread across Confederacy’s face as he threaded his fingers between England’s. “I’m glad to hear it. You say that you are observing for your government. Was there anything in particular you wanted to see?”

England shook his head, but then held up his hand as if remember something “Despite wanting to punch you in the face for that little stunt in my harbors. I really had no plans,” he smiled.

“Stunt?” Confederacy replied. “I needed a ship and the people of Liverpool were happy to build me one. And it was Union who tried to create an incident near Gibraltar. I did not violate the Foreign Enlistment Act as the ship had no guns when it left your waters. There is nothing against building war-like ships.” He shrugged, England didn’t need to know the depths of the loopholes he’d found in his laws. “Well, no point in sitting here while there are things that could be done. Would you like to meet Mr. Davis?”

***

“Not particularly, but since I've met the president of the United States I might as well meet this man who fancies himself a second president.” England sighed, pushing to his feet. He eyed the Confederacy for a moment. They were so similar.

“Excellent. He’s in his office. Mrs. Davis is likely around somewhere as well.” He got up from his chair and waited for him near the door. Once England walked by his side they proceeded down the hall of the presidential mansion. It was a different feeling than the general chaos of its counterpart in the North. There was a decided aristocratic air about the place, giving England the uncomfortable feeling that he was walking through the American version of one of the noble homes of England. Clothes were starting to look frayed around the edges, but everyone wore them as if they were brand new.

“You've….established well,” England said slowly, unable to find any other commentary for the time being.

“I’m the better half,” he said, turning down another hallway and opening a door. “Mr. Davis, I’d like to introduce you to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. He’s been kind enough to come and visit us.” The Kentuckian stood up and came around his desk to shake England’s hand.

“You should have sent word ahead, sir, we could have arranged some kind of event. You’ve caught us in a troubled time I’m afraid,” he said.

“No need I am merely passing through before I head up to Canada.” England shot an impressed look at the Confederacy. The level of respect he was being shown was blatantly obvious and the way it should have been.

“Well, if you change your mind please just say so. Johnny, I’m sure you can make our guest comfortable.”

“Of course, Mr. Davis. I was going to show him about town. Have a good day, sir.” Davis nodded and Confederacy ushered England back out of the room. “As I said, perhaps we can find something near camp to refresh you.”

“Is there not a pub nearby?”

“I doubt there is much left at many of them... we could call at the officer’s club. They always seem to have something.”

“It is too much hassle... let us go somewhere private later then. I have some in my luggage.”

***

Confederacy tilted his head in acknowledgement and proceeded to give him a tour of Richmond as they walked along the roads towards the encampment of the Army of Northern Virginia. Confederacy explained what had happened although he was careful to keep England away from the worst of the vandalism from the bread riots, mentioning that President Davis had even pulled money out of his own pockets to offer all he had. Unfortunately, it had taken the militia to restore order in the town. He made an effort to keep England away from any of the slaves in the area, no need to remind him of that unfortunate institution. Not that there were many left in the city, many were living on the outskirts of Washington D.C. a little more than 100 miles distance. “War contraband” the north was calling them. He wrinkled his nose at the thought, Union could play his own propaganda game in that regard.

The camp itself was shabbier than it had looked barely more than two years prior. There hadn’t been many opportunities for new equipment, not with the blockade. It was on the tip of his tongue to thank England for the material his merchants smuggled in via the Rio Grande and into Texas, but perhaps he wasn’t aware of it. Better to hold that information close until he knew which side he was feeling magnanimous towards. People were welcoming and several soldiers offered up little things their wives or sweethearts had sent them, but he didn’t have the heart to do anything but graciously turn them down. He could feel it in his bones. It would be a hard year. They reached the banks of the James River and turned around, back towards the city. “What do you think?” he asked England who had been rather quiet the entire day.

“That your people are Alfred’s people and vice versa. One in the same.”

Stopping, Confederacy turned to look at him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are trying to say.”

“The camps and the people are the same.” England shrugged“You aren't as different as you think.”

He raised his chin and walked on, leaving England for a moment and then turning around. _How can he think that we are the same! What does he think this war is about!?_ He frowned at him. “And yet he wears blue and I wear gray.”

“I've been through four civil wars, John. Take that pearl of wisdom,” England said, carefully.

Confederacy’s jaw visibly tightened. “He may still see me as a part of him, but this ends with my independence or my destruction. And I will not go quietly.”

England sighed, rubbing his temple “All right.”

Silence stretched between them, filled instead with the sounds of the late afternoon. Confederacy sighed. “What sort of drink did you say you had in your luggage? I could use a shot of something.”

“Brandy and a bit of Scotch left.” England shot him a glance.

“Scotch will do.” He began leading the way back towards the large house where the Confederate government had placed itself. They walked into the house, greetings of good evening piling on until they reached the upstairs. “If you choose to spend the night we have found this space for you,” he said, opening a door and allowing England to enter.

***

“It would not be safe to leave this late. I shall be staying.” England peered inside. Sure enough his bags had been brought in and laid on the bed. The room was small and unremarkable but it would more than do. A roof and a mattress with blankets.Walking over and placing his hat on the bed he clicked open one of the bags pulled out two hefty flasks. “Glasses?”

“I can fetch some from downstairs.”

“That would be best.” England nodded turning to place them on top of the dresser. He heard the Confederacy head downstairs. England sat on the bed with his head in his hands. This was harder than he thought it would be. Seeing the spitting image of America right after he had just slept with him and then had to run out on the other. Guilt gnawed at his belly. Why? There was no reason for him to feel this way. It was just a good shag and that was it. He’d helped America forget all of this, even if it was just for a moment.

The footsteps returning brought England out of his thoughts, as Confederacy returned with two glasses dangling from his fingers. He gestured for England to stay seated and he poured out a shot for each, offering England his glass. “For the fallen in this war of northern aggression,” said Confederacy raising his glass in a toast, not waiting for England before he downed his drink.

“For everyone suffering from all of this,” England muttered taking a sip.

Tapping idly at the side of his glass, Confederacy came to sit beside him. He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. “I’ve heard that Parliament was considering support and recognition. Is it true?”

“Possibly. That's why I was sent here.”

“I hope to call you ally.” He twisted a little in his position so that he could smile at him.

“That is not for me to decide.” England shook his head. He could give Confederacy one thing, he was relentless.

“We are at the whims of our people and governments. I remember you telling me that once.” He shrugged and straightened his position. “I always wanted to ask, what do we get to decide for ourselves?” He reached over England to get the flask and pour another splash of amber liquid into his glass.

“Things of a more personal nature,” England murmured, green gaze fixing on him. So similar. If it weren’t for the accent and the smooth hair, he could be Alfred.

“I seem to recall such things did not go well for us in London, despite my efforts to win you over.” His arm brushed England’s as he raised his glass to his mouth.

“Yes, that was a while ago by human standards.” he acknowledged.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, gray-blue eyes meeting England’s. “And something has changed?”

“You could say that.”

“And?”

“And what?” England rolled his glass between his fingers.

“And...” Confederacy lifted his own glass to his mouth and took a sip. “Well, perhaps I’ve misunderstood... although, you know I have more heart for you than that Yankee ever did.” He brushed the back of his hand against England’s.

England caught his hand. _Just like Alfred’s._ Twining their fingers together he eyed the other blond carefully. “Perhaps.” his head tilted every so slightly. _It's almost like they are the same person. He smells the same. When I’ve kissed him before he even tasted the same._

Leaning in, Confederacy brushed his lips against England’s in a quick motion before moving closer to touch the shell of his ear with his lips. “Let me prove it to you. You won’t spare a glance for anyone else,” he whispered in England’s ear.

“I…” The offer was tempting. The nights were cold and the thought of another warm body to share his bed was beyond what he could have hoped. It would be normal in the way these things usually went. But a sense of unease stirred in his belly. He swallowed “Perhaps...let's see where the night takes us.”

Confederacy pulled back, a little frown at the corner of his mouth. “I see. Is there anything else you wanted to observe?”

“Not outside of this room, no.” England lifted one shoulder in a shrug, taking another drink.

Confederacy’s eyes watched the movement of England’s throat. Letting out a little puff of air, he reached for the liquor again.

England heaved a sigh laying back against the bed to stare into the rafters . _Pity. Dealing with two virgins._ He nearly cringed at the thought. One wasn’t a virgin anymore. Should he really sleep with both of them? Was that right? It wouldn’t be the first pair of ‘brothers’ he’d slept with in his long life.

Confederacy tried to shift, but the collar of his uniform coat dug into his throat. Standing up, he removed it, carefully draping it over the back of the chair at the end of the bed. He dropped down into it, extending gray clad legs to hook his boots into the footboard of the bed. “Have you been to Texas, Arthur?” The accent slid from the more cultured Virginian tones to the rougher western accents England had heard on his travels.

“No. There has been no reason for me or travel that far.”

“I should take you there, a whole other place than here. I’m going to take the New Mexico territory. Union thought he was clever by claiming the gold states.” He smiled at him. “I could show you how to ride like an American.”

“And why would I ever want to do such a thing?” England snorted.

“You don’t think it’s romantic? Men out in the wilderness. Their horse and their wits. Their sidearm. A lot of adventures to be had. Maybe when the war is over you’ll come. The Rio Grande is quite the river.” Loosening his necktie. “And don’t tell me Englishmen don’t do such things. I’ve met a few out west that are quite enamored of the whole idea.”

“I don’t have such time to waste is all. I’ve actually had to hunt and do such things for basic survival. If you remember your history lessons my people used to live like that. They came from no Empire. And if I had such time I would once again take to the seas. Once again be a privateer.”

“That is fun. I spent some time on the _Alabama._ Raiding northern commerce is always a privilege. In fact, let me say thanks for the clever sailors from England who are so useful on my ships.” He raised his glass to England.

England gave him a dirty look before looking back at the ceiling. “I am going to pretend that I didn’t hear that.”

Pulling his boots back from the bed, Confederacy stood up, his steps a little wobbly as he dropped down onto the bed beside England. “Why? I’m very grateful to them... I could be even more grateful if you’d recognize me.” He lay his hand on England’s chest, toying with his buttons.

“I'll let Her Majesty know.” England looked at him. “I told you that I was merely here to observe.”

“What are you observing now?”

“Good liquor and the personification of a rebel faction.”

Confederacy’s eyes narrowed, trying to decide which way to take the comment. “I’ve heard you like rebels, as long as they aren’t rebelling against you. At least that’s what they say in the papers.”

“Me personally? Or the United Kingdom?”

“Perhaps you could enlighten me then?”

“I am afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.” England drowned the rest of the drink with a cringe.

“Do you like rebels or is it just your people?”

“Not so much the person, but rather whether or not if I agree with what they are rebelling about.”

He looked away, brow furrowing slightly. “Oh.”

Reaching up he grasped the blond’s chin turning his face back towards him “Where’d that cocky spirit go? You’ve lost it have you?”

“It was merely a tactical retreat, should I take this as your opinion as to my cause?” His fingers threaded through the buttons of England’s waistcoat.

“Take it as you like I suppose.”

“Perhaps I will.” He leaned into England’s touch, pressing his mouth to England’s. He pushed for more, the taste of the Scotch on his lips.

England responded slowly, coaxing the other other to deepen the kiss, hand settling on the small of the Confederacy’s back. _Even beneath the spirits he tastes the same as Alfred still._ He tilted his head, welcoming the other’s ministrations.

Rolling onto his side, Confederacy pressed his body against England’s. His glasses bumped England’s face and he pulled them off, dropping them onto the blankets as he hooked an arm around him.

_He’s more assertive._ England tangled his fingers in the Confederacy’s hair, allowing the other to pull him closer and onto his side. Legs tangling together England ignored the pang of guilt in his chest and pushed closer. _It's just a quick fuck.Like all the others. Just like all the others._

Struggling through England’s buttons, he tugged England’s shirt out of his trousers, running a hand up his spine. Pulling away from England’s mouth he tucked his head beneath England’s chin, brushing his lips along his collarbone. He responded as England tangled the fingers of one hand in his hair, the other working on his shirt. The red welt across his stomach drew England’s eye, fingers going to it immediately. “Don’t worry, it only hurts sometimes. Not now.”

England's breath caught in his throat. Those words, those exact words. His mind raced. “You know,” he croaked, “No matter how much I prepare you, this is going to be extremely uncomfortable and you will have discomfort sitting or walking tomorrow.”

Confederacy looked back at him, a alight look of confusion on his face at England’s sudden reluctance. “I won’t break.”

England choked and pulled back, shaking his head. _There's not...something...something is wrong here. There’s no reason they should respond the exact same way!_

Sitting up, Confederacy reached out to touch his shoulder. “What happened? Did I hurt you?” Without his glasses the resemblance was even more uncanny. Squinting, Confederacy found his glasses and put them on. He waited, concern etched on his face.

“No,” England said quickly. “I uh... just find myself feeling unwell.”

“Should I send for a physician? Or do you need something?”

“No... I think I may just be tired.” England shook his head. That wasn't a lie, he was rather tired and for some reason this was making him feel unwell.

“Oh, I suppose I will take my leave then.” Slowly, Confederacy pushed himself off the bed and straightened his clothes, picking up his coat. He paused in the doorway. “If you need anything, my room is the last door at the end of the hall. I... rest well, Arthur.”

England watched silently before nodding “Thank you.”

A genuine, caring smile. “Of course.” He pulled the door shut behind him, footsteps fading down the hall.

Rolling onto his side England pulled the pillow at the head of the bed to his chest. They were both America why did it matter? Why did it matter regardless? Why was this proving to be any different than before? It shouldn't, and yet it did.

***

The next morning Confederacy sat at the table, smoothing the letters besides his breakfast tray. Some of the hoped for supplies had come through at last. He savored the taste of actual coffee, knowing too soon that he would be leaving that luxury soon enough. However, before that he needed to talk to England. His sudden illness last night had to have been an excuse. However, it would have been ungentlemanly to continue to push. Not to mention that being presumptuous had led to disastrous results before. He added one of the precious sugar cubes to the hot coffee and continued to wait. It was well past sun up, surely he would come down.

When he finally made an appearance, the discomfort on England’s face was evident. He sat down at the table and the servants hopped to, bringing him some of the food. “Are you feeling better this morning?” he asked, waiting until England had at least one bite of food.

“A bit thank you.” England nodded, sitting down and placing the napkin in his lap. He thanked the woman that placed a small teacup in front of him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, fiddling with the papers on the table and shifting them to the other side of his plate. “I must, unfortunately, take my leave of you today. There is a mail packet preparing to run the blockade if you’d prefer to go back to London as opposed to staying here. I need to go to Vicksburg.”

“I…” England cleared his throat “I am heading up to Canada... on a personal vessel.” He lifted the cup, taking a sip only to grimace. The staff needed to learn how to prepare a proper cup.

“I would offer you a pass, but I doubt that the Union would honor it at this point.” He rubbed his finger on the rim of his mug. “I hope I’ll see you again soon, perhaps this season will convince them to give it up. Let me be free.”

“I am not concerned, as if any of them could catch me.” England snorted, leveling his gaze on his breakfast partner. He offered no comment on the man's last statement.

Shuffling his papers, Confederacy finished off the last of his breakfast. He stood up, gathering the documents under one arm and walking over to where England was still sitting. He leaned over the back of the chair, catching England in a loose embrace and kissing the top of his head. “Goodbye.” Before England could really respond to the show of affection, Confederacy was already pulling away and striding out of the room.

***

England watched the other man leave with a sigh. He should have just allowed the boy to sleep with him. There had really been no reason not to, this sense of of guilt was pointless. If it was because he was worried about America's feelings it truly did not matter, they were not lovers. It had been one night, just like so many other times with other nations. England felt a sense of unease couple with confusion. Something still wasn't right and he couldn’t put a name to it. They were too similar for it all to be a coincidence. Turning around he swallowed the last of the over brewed tea with a silent gag. He could handle sub par food and drink with no problem, tea however, that was another story. “I suppose I better get out of here.”

***

_Late April 1863_

_Toronto, Canada_

The last thing England had expected when he came knocking on Canada’s door was to be hit in the chest with the whirlwind that was Australia. The brown haired boy had nearly knocked him off his feet with what England couldn’t tell was an embrace or a tackle. When did he get so big?! “Arthur! Hey, Matt, Arthur’s here!”

“Well, good morning” England grunted, patting the boy’s head with a smile. “I was not aware you were here, Jett.” He frowned at Canada as the other came into view. He didn’t like the idea of any of his colonies being so close to the disaster that was the American Civil War.

Canada caught the look, an apologetic expression on his face. “He arrived a few days ago. He tried to find you in London and then came here. I was going to put him on a stagecoach... It’d be safer if he went out of a western port... we have to wait for winter to break.”

“Matt’s been making me study,” said Australia, wrinkling his nose.

“Why were you looking for me? You could have simply sent word.”

Australia shuffled his feet. “You hadn’t come to visit me in a while and I had some things to show you... and I thought I would ask cousin Alfred about some things on my way back... since his gold mines are older, but Matt says I can’t right now.”

“No... Alfred is very busy. He can't be bothered right now. Matthew is right about that.” He nodded. “I'm sorry I haven't been to visit. My people have been sick, therefore, I've been very busy.”

“Jett, why don’t you go outside and play?” Matt said, as his little brother started to look in between the two of them. “Arthur needs to talk to me.”

Australia frowned, but nodded. “Fine, but don’t leave without talking to me, too. I have a message for you from New Zealand, too.” The noise through the house was considerable until the backdoor banged open and closed signalling his exit. In the consequent silence, Canada put his hands in his pockets.

“I was going to send word, but I didn’t know where to send it. I’ve been trying to keep him out of it... the last thing Jett should be doing is getting involved in anything going on on the Pacific side. The civil war has extended far beyond the north and south on the east coast...” Canada leaned against the wall and then realized he’d left England standing in his doorway with his satchel. “Let me get your bag, Arthur, then I can make you some tea. Go ahead and take a seat in the parlor. Jett won’t be back for a while.”

“Sounds fine…” England frowned, shrugging off his bag and handing it to Canada.Leaving the entryway he moved towards a much more comfortable setting. Canada’s parlor was modest and much to his taste as he chose an oversized arm chair as his seat. Scanning the room England sighed, there was too much French influence in the decorating scheme. It was nauseating.

It didn’t take long for Canada to return, a tea tray between his hands. He settled it beside England’s chair and took the other seat in front of the fire. “Did you see him?”

“John? Why yes. I spent the evening in his house.”

“I see. I’m surprised he stayed down there for so long...” Canada fidgeted.

“Well, he left for Vicksburg before I was even done with my morning tea.” He sniffed. “His manners are usually top notch.”

Canada’s brow furrowed in worry, picking a bit at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. “They’ll be fighting over that all summer... his manners are good, because he did listen growing up. Maybe he’ll settle down if he’s under siege... or will he go over to... who’s down there? Grant? Though if Lee shows up...” Canada stood up, pacing in front of the fire, his face full of concern as he tried to parse his thoughts.

“It's nothing you should be involved in, Matthew,” England warned.

Canada shook his head. “Anything that happens to him eventually happens to me. And he’s my brother.” He crossed his arms and resumed his pacing. “Arthur, do you know if there was any more consideration into changing my authority from Colony to Dominion?” He looked at England with hope on his face.

“Nothing has yet been decided,” England said firmly, “and I would ask that you remain out of the business of the United States as much as possible.”

Canada continued to pace, slowing a little and coming to a stop in front of him. “Arthur, I... I think I should attack him. If I had Dominion status the Crown could have deniability... he couldn’t blame you... and having someone else to fight... he might go back to normal.”

“Authority which you don’t have yet.” England's fingers tightened on the chinaware. “Which means you are still subject to her Majesty and her Majesty does not wish to be involved. And as the Dominion of Canada you would be independent, but not completely sovereign. Hence, if he fought back it would force me to step in when his armies lay waste to yours. I will ask, one more time that you do not interfere.”

Tears welled up in Canada’s eyes. “If you were talking to Upper Canada one week and Lower Canada the next depending on who won the last battle or has a slight advantage what would you do? You’d want me to snap out of it wouldn’t you?”

With a sigh England placed his cup down on the tray, pushing himself up from the chair. It took but the blink of an eye before England was standing in front of Canada “Matthew, calm down. That's not going to happen to you,” he said quietly

“If John gets his own body whose to say the part of me that is French won’t want the same thing?” He whispered in reply as if giving it too much voice would summon a civil war of his own.

“Matthew,” England said, concerning a sharpness in his chest “Have you been feeling unwell?”

Canada shook his head, sharply. “I’m fine right now... but... what happens to Alfred always catches up to me.”

“You two are very different, and you need to remember that. I... I don’t know what's going on with Alfred, he’s a new nation that chose to go off on his own and is facing consequences of such actions. You are far too level headed to make such a mistake.”

“What do you mean you don’t know what’s going on with him? I thought you said you saw him?” The tension in Canada’s shoulders didn’t ease, although his face turned questioning.

“Well yes, I saw John.” England frowned. “You asked if I had and I said yes. Guaranteed what is going on with America is highly irregular. A nation has never split like this because of a civil war. But... there are two Irelands.”

“I’ve seen Colleen, the Fenians, they’re recognized not as their own nation, but as a group... and if there really was a Confederate States of America don’t you think he’d look like her? A younger sibling?”

“What are you saying?” England frowned at him.

Canada searched England’s face. “He’s... they’re both in there. John is... I don’t know how to describe him... it’s like all of Alfred’s traits from the states in rebellion got wrapped up in a different version of himself. Alfred won’t give him recognition. You won’t. France won’t. Nobody has... and it’s... Alfred so stubbornly denied it that he’s literally of two minds right now. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing and that’s why I’ve been chasing him back and forth trying to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. And his people don’t really want the war, but don’t know how to stop...”

“...You’re saying that Alfred and John are the same person? Like there has been no body split at all?” Something in England’s mind clicked. That would not be an outlandish idea to entertain. The similarities between the two were so identical that even twins to be so alike would be outrageous. Their words, their way at looking at things, and the marks around their bellies. England shook his head. “The eyes? Changing of shades is not different for people when they are experiencing a temporary extreme emotion... but to have it all the time?”

“He’s... what is this, but an extreme emotion taken too far?” Canada put his hand on England’s upper arm. “I know I sound like I’m crazy too, but... I saw it. I was coming to see how he was after the Battle of Fort Sumter. He had been taken back to Washington, and was completely out. When he came to he had no idea where he was and what had happened. Then at the first Battle of Bull Run, he’s Alfred one moment and then I lost sight of him. I found him face down in the woods still in his blue uniform, but when he came to he thought _I_ was Alfred and tried to attack me. That was the first time I saw John.”

“It certainly would explain a lot.” A sense of relief filled him. Guilt had plagued the entire night after he had almost slept with the Confederacy in the south, felt as if he would be betraying America. Which was another matter of confusion entirely, but now all the guilt was lifted.

“He doesn’t know though, it’s like he has a complete change. I’ve been trying to get him to realize it himself. Alfred knows something is missing, but the part of him that’s John denies that...” Canada turned away, rubbing his hands on his arms. “What can we do?”

England chewed on his lip. He had seen both of them. “Maybe I can do something.”

“What?”

England cleared his throat. “Just let me see if I can convince him.”

Canada stopped, turning around to stare at him, as though trying to read something in his face. “You don’t have to, I can keep trying.”

“Alfred is important to more than just you,” he said quietly.

Shame spread over Canada’s face. “I know that you care about him... if it’s not too bold to ask, did something happen? I couldn’t follow him when he went abroad... and he’s been so back and forth...”

“Dealings behind closed doors, between Alfred and I, are our own.” His tone spoke of finality.

Canada flushed and nodded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

England relaxed “No, it’s I who should apologize. There was no need for me to respond so harshly. Let talk to him once more and then we shall go from there. How does that sound?” He could never remain mad at Canada, never had been able to.

“All right. Thank you.” A small smile appeared on Canada’s face. He flinched as a door slammed into a wall at the back of the house. In another instant, Australia came careening around the corner, mud splattered to his knees.

“Matt! Look what I found, can I keep it?” The spotted kitten made a mewling sound and rubbed at its face with paws far too big for a house cat. Canada sighed.

“Jett, I can’t have a mountain lion in my house. Take it back to its mother, please.”

Australia pouted, and stomped back out, throwing a, “You’re no fun,” over his shoulder. Looking back at England, Canada sighed. “Are you staying for dinner? I should get something started to feed Jett when he gets back from tromping around with wild cats.”

“He’s probably damned that poor thing to death. There's a high chance the mother won't take it back now.” England sighed. “And yes I shall be staying for supper. I didn’t run my blockade runner all the way up here for one conversation.” He grinned at Canada’s horrified look. “Oh yes, I may have purchased one... and been running blockades simply for the fun of it all.” He straightened wrinkles on his vest that didn’t exist. “But yes, I came here for one more thing and I guess that will have to be attended to after supper, so if you wouldn’t mind I shall also be staying the night as we will both be tired.”

“Jett has a way with animals, probably making friends with them all right now... he reminds me of Alfred sometimes, but he gets into a lot more trouble than I think we ever did...” Canada’s face turned reminiscent. “Of course you can stay, I’ll have one of the beds turned down for you.”

“Perfect. I suggest you change after supper. I am certain that you have been keeping up with your arcane practices? We shall do some training afterwards.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You have been keeping up haven't you?” he gave a stern look as he followed after Canada.

“I... well, things have been busy.”

“Matthew, that’s not an excuse.” he scowled

Ears pink, Canada took refuge on one side of the kitchen. A row of cupboards dominated one side and a large oven on the other. A stove was settled nearby. Shining pots and pans hung overhead. Plumbing had been installed recently, adding convenience to that aspect. “I have studied... but I’ve been distracted.”

England crossed his arms with a disapproving glance “So, tell me am I wasting my time then?”

“I guess we’ll find out...”

England frowned. “I’ll disregard the smart ass comment for now. What are we making?” he rolled up his sleeves.

Eyes widening, Canada was quick to answer. “It’s fine, I can manage dinner on my own. Maybe you could make sure Jett isn’t tracking mud all over my house? Please?”

“Oh, come now. We haven't cooked together in decades.” His hands settled on his hips.

The door swung open, Australia coming in with a snowball melting in his gloved hand. “Is Arthur gonna cook? I wanna watch.” The boy hopped up onto the countertop and watched the other two expectantly. Putting up his hands in defeat, Canada sighed.

“Ummm... could you boil some water? We’ll keep dinner simple.”

“Jett, off the counter now!” England snapped, staring at the small colony until he shimmed off the counter. “With no commentary,” he added as he heard the short brunette grumbling. With a look, England grabbed one of the pots and filled it with water, bringing it over to the stove. He checked the fire, and added another log to increase the heat. “All right, what next?”

“Once it’s hot, boil some eggs.” Canada began working on something entirely different on his end.

“Emu eggs are this big!” Jett said, demonstrating with his hands. “You can eat them. A lot more food than a chicken. You can eat them with me, Arthur.”

“I know how to boil eggs, Matthew.” England sighed, “And you don’t have to wait until it’s hot. And Emu eggs are a delicacy, Jett. Not for everyday eating.”

Directions were given to cook some beans and other dried vegetables. Australia fetched things, England watching him as if he suspected he was some mine with the fuse set to go off.With scowl, England turned to continuously stir the soup so that it wouldn't burn. Perhaps he would make sweets later, everyone loved sweets but there was something about watching the delight on a child's face. He used to love watching Canada and America tear through their sweet treats when he would bring them from his journeys. A small smile made its way onto his mouth.

“Arthur!” Canada shouted and to England's horror he realized that the soup was beginning to smoke.

“All I did was stir it!” England cried.

Canada hurried over taking the spoon and trying to get the damage under control.

“Oh, come now.” England scowled. “This is ridiculous!”

Canada smiled and then started to laugh. He couldn’t control it. Australia watched him wide-eyed. “You broke him!” he said to England.

When he finally could catch his breath, Canada pulled off his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Even though it’s not right in the world... it’s good to know some things don’t change.”

England scowled, crossing his arms “I can cook! It wasn't me”

Australia wrapped his arms around England’s middle. He was getting tall, head almost reaching England’s shoulder. “Arthur, come play with me. I’ve learned cricket!”

England hesitated as he peered back at Canada, yet all but melted at the colony’s plea. “Of course,” England smiled.

Australia smiled and happily led England out into the brisk spring day to try to play cricket in ankle deep snow. The snow was quite the novelty to the colony, however, and the game soon devolved into a snowball fight.

“We are not dressed for this!” England snorted while throwing a snowball at the boy before ducking behind a tree.

All he got in response was a laugh and the clatter of a snowball on the other side of his arboreal barrier. “Does that mean I win then?” Another snowball clattered against the tree as footsteps crunched in the snow.

Breathing slowly England watched the shadows, seeing Jett’s move towards him. Muscles tensing a wicked grin crawled up his face “Absolutely not!” he bellowed, knocking into the colony. A shriek of surprise erupted from the Australian nation as they went tumbling. Pinning the flailing nation down Englandrubbed a handful of snow into the brunette’s hair. “Surrender!”

The boy laughed and struggled. “Dinner!” Canada called from the backdoor, prompting them both to hurry inside to warm up by the fire. Rubbing his hands together England followed the two into the small dining room.

“It smells wonderful, Matthew.”

Canada smiled. “Thank you.” Everyone settled in to eat, Australia needed constant correction for his table manners. It was warm, familial, a world apart from the privations of war happening just to the south. The night wore on, Australia falling asleep on England’s shoulder prompting him to take the young colony up to his bed, leaving Canada in the parlor.

***

Canada leaned back in his chair, the worry creeping back in as silence fell throughout the house. _You’re too level headed._ England had said. It wouldn’t happen to him. It was true that America had been running headlong into an unknown world full of inventions and ideas while staying locked into traditions that gave reason for other nations to look at him and say he was a dreamer. _All men created equal, huh?_ It wasn’t that the other necessarily thought better, but that they were cynical enough to say they didn’t think such a thing was possible. America was pulled apart by the fringes... the newspapers weren’t wrong, Canada thought, it was vanity. Vanity and stubbornness had given one aspect of himself autonomy and enough power to shake itself free. _That_ frightened Canada.

England’s appearance puzzled him, along with that secret, odd look on his face. He had promised to try. Despite his protestations, America was still in love with England. Canada knew that much. It was obvious in the way he would sigh or even complain about him. The part of him that became John didn’t even try to hide it. Canada frowned. What exactly had happened? England had looked so relieved. It wasn’t as though America and England had been just platonic in years. Then they had a falling out during the Prince’s tour... Canada bit his lip. Would England be able to make it better?

Or would America just get worse?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We loved seeing your reactions to the last chapter!
> 
> There are a few chapters left in this book! Next up: England has a maddening realization. America faces the Battle of Gettysburg and seeing England again after he woke up alone.


	22. Slipping Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England has returned home, ignoring the feelings that have grown and the knowledge that he possesses about America's state. However, someone notices and tells him that he shouldn't deny it anymore. America is reeling from the Battle of Gettysburg and seeing England again.

_April 23, 1863_

_Buckingham Palace, London, England_

“Good morning and happy birthday, Arthur.” It was the congratulations and a motherly kiss pressed to his temple, that brought England back to earth. Looking up from the novel that he had been utterly consumed by, he looked to the Queen who moved to sit across from him at the small breakfast table in his parlor. Servants swung in to lay out to place settings, swiftly followed by trays carrying their traditional breakfast. “I personally selected your gift.” A spark lit the middle aged woman’s eyes. “She’s in the stables.”

England stared at her blankly as the cogs in his mind began to click. He glanced at the the paper neatly folded next to his hot cup of tea. Oh right. It was his birthday, England’s national day. Sticking the slight bookmark into the novel, he laid it down on the table with a smile at Victoria. “Thank you.”

“You didn’t even realize what day it was did you? Your last mare is almost ready to be put out to pasture and when this one was presented to me she just seemed as if she would be perfect.” Victoria slathered cool jam onto a steaming biscuit and England followed suit. “What are you reading? You were so grossly absorbed I am certain had I not touched you, you would have no idea I had arrived. I could have come, ate, and gone without your notice.”

“My apologies Victoria. It is completely engrossing.” He held up the book for her to see. “It’s called _Romola_ by George Eliot.”

“I thought that it was in the Cornhill Magazine?”

“Well, it is. However, I received the first part that is to be published as a novel later this year. Of course, it's a rough compilation since it’s not out yet. But it arrived yesterday. I started it after supper and stayed up most of the evening reading it. I am almost done,” he said almost wistfully. “I do hope I get an advanced copy of the second part.”

“Honestly. I think you sometimes have better connections than Parliament.” Victoria sighed, spooning sugar into her tea.

“Really? What gave it away? Me literally being a personification of a nation?” England mulled.

“Speaking of personified nations...” Victoria took the chance right when she saw it.

“Victoria, please not at breakfast! Or how about never!” England groaned before leveling his queen with a hard look. Victoria had been making little jabs and dropping comments like rain drops regarding America ever since he had returned from across the Atlantic.

“You expect me to not say anything when even those fools in Parliament, those who cannot even see past their own noses, have noticed how you mope and glance around forlornly around the palace like some love sick girl watching the harbor for her wayward sailor?”

“I am not some love sick girl!” He sit his glass down hard, china clacking in protest.

“No, a love sick man.”

“I am not love sick anything, Victoria! I am merely concerned with the world's problems at hand!”

“You are lying through your teeth Arthur.”

“I am not!”

“Can you honestly sit there with a straight face and tell me that the majority of your daily thoughts are not consumed by the thought or image of what Alfred is doing or where may be at the moment?”

“Well, of course they are! The American Civil War is having a detrimental effect on every nation here in Europe. Especially us, as I know you are fully aware of.”

“I did not say that your thoughts were consumed by America. I said Alfred.”

“That-” England faltered as the Queen made a direct distinction. “You...that’s... that’s...” He stammered. Her statement was too specific for him to use roundabout answers.

  
“You know better than to try telling falsehoods to me, Arthur. I’ve known you since I was a little girl.” Victoria warned.

“It’s not-”

“Arthur!” Victoria snapped and the servants that were carrying in the next pot of tea froze in the doorway, uncertain how to handle the situation. “Albert and I have already talked to you about this!” The harshness in her tone faded, replaced with concern “I hate seeing you like this... it’s painful and unnecessary.”

“I am fine.”

“Denial never did anyone good.”

“If this is about me having affections for Alfred-”

“Until you acknowledge it, then it will be. Arthur, you have always been a logical individual, with the exception of anything regarding Francis and this.” When the island nation offered no quick argument Victoria continued. “You cannot deny that your interactions and emotions regarding the American nation are vastly different from that of the other nations.”

“Well of course I raised-”

“You raised Canada as well. Is it truly the same?”

“I-” England fell silent as he contemplated the woman’s words. No, they weren't the same. He loved Matthew, and would do anything to protect the boy, especially from Francis, but the swell of emotions that he had for the violet eyed blond varied vastly from that of his blue eyed brother. The thought of taking Canada to bed made him extremely uncomfortable, perhaps even nauseous. But the thought of taking America to bed filled him with entirely different thoughts and feelings. He cast Victoria an uncomfortable glance.

“You don’t have to admit to anything. Not to me. But I ask that you stop denying it and think on it substantially. You may have taken Albert’s and my own comments during the cricket practice as simple chatter during a game, but I ask you now to seriously think on it. Your denial does absolutely no one any good.”

***

_July 3, 1863_

_Gettysburg, Pennsylvania_

Confederacy’s ears were ringing. It had been nearly 2 hours of constant fire. Over 150 of his own cannons, answered back by about 80 of Union’s. The field was full of smoke. And yet, despite the bombardment, Union’s position hadn’t moved. Confederacy rubbed at his sweating neck. It was so damned hot! Men had died just trying to find shade. Damn yankee for firing on the woods nearby!

He stared across the field at Union’s position. He had not been firing with all his cannons. Perhaps the bombardment had knocked them out. He picked up his rifle, making sure his foraging cap was on his head and joined the group of over twelve thousand men. If artillery couldn’t make him move, this would have to change something. It was part of Mr. Lee’s plan. They would take Cemetery Hill and the roads. Union wouldn’t keep them.

He could see Major General Pickett talking to Lieutenant General Longstreet. Longstreet said nothing in response to whatever Pickett was asking, he merely bowed and moved away. “Are we going to advance?” Confederacy asked.

“We have the orders,” Pickett said. Confederacy nodded. This had to work. They’d been at this for two days already! Why wouldn’t Union just retreat!

The stretch of his soldiers was nearly a mile long as they advanced. The rifle fire and cannon shells roared in his ears taking away the rest of his hearing as he scrambled over the fences and up the hill with the rest of his men. He could hear the cries as men fell. Where was his own damned artillery?!

He could feel it as slowly as if someone had cut him. The confidence was bleeding out. Men were turning to run back. They were afraid. They didn’t want to do this. They knew it was lost. He didn’t want to let it lay hold of him, but the tide turned so quickly. He turned around and saw the field filled with so many men laying in the dirt.

The blast from the cannon deafened him as the force of it threw him into the dirt. Red filled his vision and he couldn’t hear anything more.

***

_July 4, 1863_

_Gettysburg, Pennsylvania_

It was his birthday. He knew it far back in his mind. For the first time, he felt no joy at the recognition of the date. He wanted to go back to that time. He’d been scared out of his mind at what England would do when he heard the news, but he’d been sure he was in the right. He didn’t have an ounce of that surety now.

He couldn’t hear anything but muffled sounds. It seemed far too much effort to move and see what was around him. He didn’t even know how he’d gotten here. Why was he lying in the dirt? Why couldn’t he move? Why did every inch of him hurt?

“Alfred!” His name sounded like he was hearing someone from under the water. “Alfred!” He was moving now, not of his own volition, but someone had hooked their arms under his chest and rolled him over. The sun was bright and the sky was hot. He squeezed his eyes shut, only a flash of red hair bringing recognition of who it was.

“Colleen... take me home.”

He could hear her a little more clearly. She was crying, he could hear it in the thick breaths she took. “I will.” Her hands left him and he could hear her calling for someone to help her. The medics lifted him onto a stretcher and he felt jostled the entire way back to the field hospital. He could barely make out their words. One voice sounded like Boston, the other, London. The pang in his chest, made him feel like he wanted to throw up. He moved too quickly for the stretcher bearers to catch him and he fell to the ground, his stomach emptying its contents.

It wasn’t fair. He’d been hurting for so long and England himself had offered a personal blow. Had he walked onto that battlefield on purpose? Had he hoped that Confederacy would hit him? He didn’t know. The pain in his body spiked and he let the hands gather him back onto the stretcher.

It was too much. He closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep and not wake up. Fifty thousand casualties. It didn’t even matter to him what color they wore.

There were his. He was failing them by not getting Johnny to see sense.

Darkness dragged him down into its cold embrace.

***

_July 10, 1863_

_New York City_

This was the third cup of tea that had gone cold and it was only eight in the morning. England found himself sitting, more draped, inside of one of the generous armchairs situated in front of the fireplace. When England had arrived one week ago, sick with his yearly illness it had been America’s cook rather than America himself that had answered the door. The few days after that England barely remembered as he was taken with flu like symptoms. There was a vague memory of someone looking in on him. In his mind he pictured the First Lady, but he decided the conjuring of her face had more to do with wanting to talk to her. To beg her to find America. England had dismissed the cook for the day when he woke that morning to find he could walk again despite being extremely tired. There was a sense of relief that it had not been Alfred to receive him in such a state, he was not sure what words or jabs would have come from his mouth if he had been there. Nonsensical babbles or sharp accusations. It was better that it didn't happen.

With no one to visit today the house was silent and England was glad for it. His mind had been awhirl for the last couple of months and it was no different now. Scooting further back into the chair, England pulled his feet beneath him. It was like he was drowning in his clothes, or to be more correct, America’s clothes. He had donned the boy’s nightshirt and robes, sleeping better in the boy’s bed than he had in awhile. It was just another hit to the head of the nail. Victoria had been right. That thought had run circles in his head throughout his voyage and it seemed every way he turned something proved it further. Burying his nose inside of the collar of America’s night robe he inhaled deeply, half lidded eyes watching the dust float through the streams of light coming in the window. He wasn’t sure when he would turn up, but he knew the boy was aware of his return the minute he touched soil. Lowering the collar, he eyed the small tray wrapped in a towel sitting next his cold cup. The cook had put out simple breakfast fixings, encouraging the nation to eat that morning. Bread smeared with jam. One of his favorites, simple and cheap, but he found he still had no appetite for food. Dropping his head onto the arm of the chair, his posture suffered further.

The front door clattered open, the sound of two people trying to walk together was heard over the general noise from the street. Street trolleys, horses, and passers by on foot were shut out with the closing of the door. “Do you think you’re going to make it up the stairs?” a female voice with a distinct Irish lilt asked.

“I didn’t know if I was going to make it out of the carriage.” A heavy sound as something thudded into a wall.

“Well, at least you aren’t one of those poor blokes coming off the river,” Colleen said. Silence. “I’m sorry, Alfred, I shouldna said that...”

“Just help me to the parlor.” The muffled sound of limping again. A pause. “Did you send word ahead?”

“No...” The door to the parlor opened. Colleen’s face appeared, red curls peeking out of a Union cap. “Bloody hell, what are you doing here?!”

Thud, thud. Hopping on one foot. “Who’s here? Arthur?” America appeared, a crutch under one arm, favoring his left leg. His face was bruised, a bandage wrapped around his head. No glasses. Cowlick. Alfred.

“Language, Colleen!” England sat up, hesitating, fingers flexing. It wouldn’t be the brightest idea to try and help. They would both end up on the floor in a painful thud. Walking down the stairs had winded him that morning. He looked at America silently before saying, “You are a tad banged up it seems.”

America’s look hardened. “Just a tad. Colleen, I think I will try to make it upstairs after all.” He turned away, the crutch making a loud thunk.

Colleen hurried to the door. “Do you need help?” She was answered with a short negative and she turned back to England. “There’s no way that the news hasn’t reached here. They’re saying it was the worst battle of the war! I saw it, bodies everywhere. Alfred would have gotten crushed into the mud if I hadn’t been there.” She put her hands on her hips. “What’s wrong with you? You look dreadful.”

“I’ve been sick since the second.” England muttered, getting out of the chair to stare after America. “So, no, I have not heard as this is the first time I've been out of bed in eight days. I have not heard anything.”

Her expression softened slightly. “The battle at Gettysburg lasted for three days, but they guess it was the worst of the whole war... thousands dead... tens of thousands wounded or missing and that’s just the side I know about. He bested Johnny, but...” She glanced into the hallway, her expression worried. “I didn’t see him until I was pulling him out of a pile of bodies. I’ve never seen so much blood...” She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Walking over England pulled her hat off and brushed back her unruly curls. “Battles of any caliber are never easy, but large scale are the worst.” he said quietly. “How about you go change into something more comfortable, the kettle is one the stove and possibly still warm and I know the cook put sweets into the cupboard. Let me go check on Alfred and then we can look at doingsomething with a better air?”

She gave him a suspicious look, but her own tiredness won out. Disappearing up the stairs into her bedroom, she left England to slowly make his way up.

***

America half-wished he hadn’t woken up. When he’d come to yesterday, he’d been in one of the military hospitals. He’d wanted nothing more to get out of there and away from the doctor with the British accent that was perfecting his trade. Too many reminders.

He lay on the bed and willed himself into unconsciousness. Everything hurt. And now England was here. What the hell did he want? His door swung open softly and he could hear his gait across the floor. A pause, a closeness. “Don’t touch me,” he said, the words coming through clenched teeth.

Pulling his hand back England winced, he had just barely walked over to the bed and leaned over to touch the boy’s arm. Swallowing, England lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the bed. “Colleen just told me what has happened... I am so sorry you had to experience that.”

America couldn’t look at him. He stared at the ceiling. “Your condolences are noted. What are you doing here?”

“I came to speak with you and when you were not to be found I decided to wait here and lost track of the dates... I... fell ill and when I wrote to Mrs. Lincoln she told me it would be no hindrance for me to be housed hear while I recuperated and waited for you to return.”

America glanced at him, taking in his peaked appearance. “Ill?”

England looked to the window, this time it was his turn for his jaw to clench before exhaling through his nose “I usually spend the first two weeks of July bedridden.”

America’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Honestly?!” England said sharply, looking back at him. “You are going to forget about that?”

“Serves you right,” America grumbled, looking away. His fists clenched in his blankets.

“Looks like I wasted my time coming back across the ocean to try and help you,” England hissed.

“Is that an actual declaration of aid? Or were you just hoping I could warm your bed again and you could leave mine cold? I should have known better...” He turned onto his side away from him, it was too much. The physical and emotional pain of the scene on the battlefield he couldn’t get to leave his head and the personal pain of waking up that morning realizing England was gone. Not only gone, but headed to the South.

“Is that what you are being nasty about?” he stared at the other in disbelief. “I told you I had no choice!”

A shudder of pain went through Americaand he spasmed, curling in on himself. The memory came unbidden, but with perfect clarity as he had turned it over in his mind so many times since that morning.

_It was midday. The way the light shone through the window told him that much. He had not slept so long or so well in a long time. There was a strange feeling in his chest, like the world would right itself. Maybe there was a future after all. He had to survive, he had to know what else there was in the world. The memory of the way England had touched him, made him feel things he’d never felt before warmed his skin. He rolled over, expecting to be able to gather England into his arms and press his face against his throat. He wanted to be lost in him for just a little while longer, before the world intervened again. He wanted to feel England’s skin against his own even if it was just in embrace._

_He could smell England in the sheets, on the air, but when he turned England wasn’t beside him. There was only the indent in the pillow from where he’d been. America sat up, looking around the room. He was alone. England’s place on the bed was cold. Wincing slightly, as he moved across the bed, he reached for his nightshirt and pulled it on over his head against the chill. England had told him the truth about the discomfort. He stood up gingerly and went downstairs._

_Perhaps England had just gone to eat. He would find him in the kitchen, the dining room, maybe even the study. He walked into each. England was nowhere to be found. No trace of him in the house at all. He couldn’t have gone! He couldn’t possibly be so cruel! England had done things to hurt him in the past, but he had to know how much last night meant to him! He noticed that post had been left on his desk and he scooped up the pile of dispatches. As he walked back upstairs, he began to feel dirty. Like he’d been used._

_It was when he’d gotten back to his room that he noticed the folded piece of paper by the bed. It must have gotten knocked off. He picked it up, seeing his name in England’s writing on the outside. He began to unfold it, smiling a little at the fact England still folded his letters like he had for hundreds of years. He expected a note that England would be back soon, possibly he’d needed to step out for a moment and didn’t want to wake him. He would be back. He always came back._

_I don’t want to, but I have to. You have to understand. Arthur._

_He stared at the words. Have to what? There was a feeling of finality in the words. America let the paper fall to the floor, watching the white flutter like a dying butterfly. At a loss for anything else to do, he sat down on the edge of the bed, the protest of his body making him change his position to laying on his stomach. He flipped through the letters and saw the headline of one of the British newspapers... a calling of support for the Confederate cause. He felt sick. England couldn’t have gone to him!_

_The feeling of being unclean returned and he went downstairs to start warming the big kettle for a bath. As he sat in the steaming water, he felt the hurt well up in his chest. He buried his face in his knees, sloshing water over the sides of the tub as his shoulders shook. England had touched him like he cared. He believed it when they held each other._

_But it was a lie._

_If England cared he would not have left him. He’d treated him like everyone else._

_It wasn’t what he wanted._

_The tears rolled down his cheeks as he felt the sudden urge to scrub every trace of England’s touch from his skin. He could still feel him everywhere. He’d been used. England had been after a quick fuck for years and had finally gotten it. America rubbed at the spots on his collarbone until his skin was red and irritated._

_How could England do this to him!? Just take what he wanted and go!? Did it mean nothing to him? The headache brewed behind his eyes. He lay his head back against the edge of the tub and tried to will the pain away. He wrapped his arms around himself and sat in the water until it grew cold and he was shivering._

_He felt cold all the way to the center of his soul._

_He couldn’t remember who he was anymore._

“Arthur, I really can’t do this right now...” He forced the words out of his throat, hoping they didn’t sound as painful as they felt. The emotion in his chest was choking him, his eyes stinging with tears. _Damn it!_

“Then don’t bring it up,” England said firmly and he reached over to touch his arm. “Come here.”

America flinched away from his hand. “I can’t...”

“I had no choice, Alfred.” His tone took on a desperate edge. Ever since his realization back in London he had been desperate to get back to America. “I told you I had duties to my Queen and you weren't going to let me leave so I had to take the first chance I had. I struggled, more than once I almost turned around and came back, but I couldn't.”

America was quiet, clutching a pillow against his chest. He could still remember how hollow he had felt. Broken. Left behind. “I know that you saw Johnny. Spent a night in Richmond. He wrote to me.”

Now was not the time for that discussion. “Yes? I used his lodgings. What of it?”

“I hope you enjoyed yourself.” A cough caught him off guard, the motion rattling his body. He grit his teeth to not to cry out.

“You mean sleeping?” England frowned. “Yes, I enjoyed sleeping on a bed rather than on the ground.” England gave him a puzzled look.

“Right. _Sleeping._ ” The word came out skeptical. Silence fell between them. America could sense that England hadn’t moved. He sighed, the bandages coming loose around his forehead, the linen itched. He wanted England to go, he wanted him to stay. He felt too weak to ask for either. “You’re still not here officially are you?”

England stiffened in offense. “No, I'm not.” he said tightly “And yes, sleeping. And if you are implying anything else then you have seriously incorrect judgment!” He hissed and grabbed the bedpost to hoist himself up “And within the hour it seems that it is best that I don't remain here unofficially either.”

Rolling onto his back, America looked at him. He knew he shouldn’t have made light of England’s illness. His presence meant something, it had to, but why... “Don’t you dare try to act the wounded party here. You’d never left me without saying goodbye before... I know that night... it might have been just another night to you, but I had been wondering what it would be like for almost a hundred years. Then you were gone... and only saying goodbye with a note...” If England was leaving there wasn’t much point in not speaking his mind. “You hurt me.”

“I left a note so obviously that was not my intention!” England said sharply. “And if you think it was just another fuck then why would I have dealt with a those games over the decades!” He seethed, cheeks heating.

America watched him, wanting to poke at the sore spot in his heart, much like picking at a wound. It had been the one thing he could feel. He didn’t expect to see him again, at least not anytime soon. The ache of what he had seen on the battlefield settled onto him. So many people who would never again get to see someone they loved. “Don’t leave. Get in bed with me,” he said. He hated himself for asking it.

England bristled. “You insult me and then expect me to get in your bed!?” He snapped before reaching into his pocket to grab a kerchief to smother a round of coughing. Folding it closed he shoved it back into his pocket, hiding it from America.

“Yes,” he replied, a wince as he rolled onto his other side feeling the bruises on his ribs. Had he been stepped on by a horse? He couldn’t remember. “I believe you... he was probably just trying to hurt me by saying he’d been in bed with you... I... we can figure it out in the morning. I’m so cold, Arthur, please.”

England hesitated, shoulders dropping. It was clear he wanted to yell, America recognized the turn of his mouth, yet, he didn’t do it. Sitting back on the bed, England motioned for the other to scoot over with a sigh. Laying his head on England’s chest, America relaxed into him. “It was so horrible... I’m not going to be able to forget Gettysburg...” The despair slid through him again, settling its chill in his limbs.

“You do good to remember it,” England said quietly. “It's a good reminder for why we try and avoid it all. A harsh lesson but an unavoidable one.” England pushed his nose into America's hair taking in a breath.

America squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry, but the tears came regardless. He didn’t know how long it was, but he must have cried himself to sleep. He opened his eyes to the flicker of the gas lamp on the wall and the plush of a pillow beneath his face. Panic coursed through him and he sat up, wincing as he jarred his injuries. “Arthur?” He was half out of the bed when the door opened revealing England carrying a bundle of bandages. America sagged with relief. “You didn’t leave.”

England scowled “I do so one time and now you act like it's habit.”

America frowned back at him. He lay back against the pillows and ran a hand through his hair. “The world is upside down.”

“It's time for you to change regardless.”

“Does it mean I get my clothes back?” He gave him a lopsided smile alongside the weak joke. It was somewhere before he fell asleep when he realized why he recognized what England had on, it was from his own closet. When temper rose on England’s face again. America added quickly. “I’m just pulling your leg. I like the way you look like that.” A blush went across his face. He supposed he could say that sort of thing now.

“Yes, you get them back.” England muttered and dropped the bandages on the bed “If you have time for bad jokes I suppose you can change yourself, hm?”

“I guess I can try.” He scooted to the edge of the bed. He winced, reaching over to grab his crutch. The bandage on his forehead had come loose, falling over his eyes.

“Honestly.” England rolled his eyes. “That's just sad. Don't move before you hurt yourself even further.” He snatched up the bandages.

America sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s not pretty...” he said, trying to prepare England for the sight of his injuries.

“The injuries of today don't faze me as much as those of the sword,” England admitted as he set to work.

“Then you haven’t seen what the new rounds can do to someone yet.” His voice was quiet as England helped him out of his shirt revealing more bandages.

“You need to remember I have been at this much longer than you have, Alfred,” he said quietly as he began to work at the ones around his chest.

“Well, speaking of sword wounds... it must have been a cavalry saber... which is strange because the Confederate cavalry is more about shooting from horseback. My cavalry still trains in it though.” The bandages came off to reveal bruised skin around a long gash that had been stitched closed over his ribs. The welt across his stomach was inflamed, as if the burn was fresh.

England shook his head, grabbing a fresh set of bandages and began to rewrap America. “You'll enrapture ladies’ hearts with war stories and those scars, Alfred,” he murmured. Silence fell over them before he began to hum to himself a tune they both recognized.

“I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill,  
And o'er the moorland sedgy  
Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill,  
Since parting with my Betsey  
I seek for one as fair and gay,  
But find none to remind me  
How sweet the hours I passed away,  
With the girl I left behind me.  
  
O ne'er shall I foget the night,  
the stars were bright above me  
And gently lent their silv'ry light  
when first she vowed to love me  
But now I'm bound to Brighton camp  
kind heaven then pray guide me  
And send me safely back again,  
to the girl I left behind me  
  
Her golden hair in ringlets fair,  
her eyes like diamonds shining.” He trailed off into humming once more.

America picked up the tune along with him, humming. It made his heart ache. The songs would get reused and rewound many times. New stanzas of poems that some clever soldier would set to music and would be sung over campfires until someone complained about the dreariness of it all. He watched the top of England’s head, wondering where they stood. He wasn’t ready to trust him again.

“There. That should do it.” England knotted off the bandages and straightened with a sigh. “I really should not be that good at this.”

America looked up at him, many responses on his tongue. He settled with the simplest. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” England nodded. “Now... I shall go change.”

America’s gaze drifted away, folding his hands in his lap. “Will you come back?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“What anger you plan to have at me.”

America looked at him. “You caught me off guard last night... I didn’t mean to be cruel. I know your illness is because of me. But, what I said was true. I’ve wanted to die so many times during this war and that was certainly one of them.”

England scowled at the window, crossing his arms. When he answered, he avoided a response entirely. “You should have believed me when I told you how being a nation... the actions of even a new one affect others.”

“Honestly, I’m surprised that I have that much power. You all didn’t think that I could... that’s why I was trying so hard. Apparently so hard I broke myself...” He rubbed a hand on the bandages.

“I warned you…” England sighed, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes. America watched England’s face as the other hid it behind his hands.

America’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t matter now does it?” He rubbed at his own head. “You made a huge mistake with Ireland and we all have to deal with that, too. And that was twenty years ago. Canada... he’s doing what he does. And France... he’s not exactly making a good name for himself on this side of the ocean. Japan is doing his thing... we all just continue on.”

England threw his hands up, and looked at the ceiling as if it would help him. “I'm just going to go.”

“Arthur, why did you come? I’m... please don’t leave again without telling me why you came in the first place. And the real answer, not the excuse.” He gripped the edge of the mattress.

“We will talk when I return.” He sighed and grabbed the sack of used bandages. “I'll toss these on my way out.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the guest room.”

Of course, England had said he was going to change. He blushed at having forgotten and nodded. England gone, America leaned back on the pillows, trying to prop them up to ease his ribs. It seemed like no time had passed at all before England appeared back in his doorway, dressed in his usual pristine condition with the news that he had left out the robes to be laundered. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyeing America as if he was weighing the outcome of what he was about to say.

“Matthew and I have been speaking... we think the civil war has put you in a case of confusion.”

America blinked at him, question spreading across his face. It was the last thing he expected to hear. “I haven’t seen Matt since before the Battle of Fredericksburg... that’s nearly eight months ago now.”

“Yes.” England nodded, walking over to the bed. “And the two of us... discussed similarities since he has seen Johnny... have you heard of the term ‘dédoublement’?”

“No.” America frowned.

“Well... in humans it's a mental illness. Usually characterized by two or more different states of personality. These states alternately show in a person's behavior, accompanied by memory impairment for important information not explained by ordinary forgetfulness.” He sat on the bed. “Often people are described to switch between a normal state of consciousness to a somnambulistic state and vice versa. John Locke had a good hand in the study of it all.”

America stared at him, the assertion that England was making syncing in. “You and Matt think that I’m making John up. That I’m sleepwalking?” It was completely absurd! “You admitted to me that you’d seen him, I didn’t hallucinate him. He talks to me, there’s a letter in his hand on the writing table! I’m not insane.”

“I didn't say I thought you were mental, Alfred.” England put his hands up. “But there are uncanny similarities between you and John. Think about it. You two have never been seen together. By anyone. You both black out and lose sections of time, you two say the same things in response to things I've said. This could just be the way you are handling your civil war.”

America looked down at his side. The saber wound. He _didn’t_ remember how he got it and the Confederate cavalry didn’t employ them as much as his own. His uniform had been so covered in mud and blood they’d been unsure if he was wounded or wounded enemy when Colleen had called for a medic. The long stretches of time when he’d wake up in a ditch or in some other place he didn’t expect. The second half of 1861 as a big empty space in his mind. A memory of kissing Arthur in London that he’d written off as a particularly vivid dream. Could that be the answer? “How is it that he could send me letters?”

“Because you write them and then send them,” England said quietly.

America turned away and bit his lip. A feeling flared in his chest, a feeling he’d not felt in years. Hope. Grabbing England’s hands, a smile broke out onto his face. “If that’s what is going on... do you know what this means?”

England stared at him as he had indeed gone mad. “No...”

“It means they’re still my people... it means that he’s not out. He doesn’t exist anywhere but here.” He tapped his temple. “I haven’t lost them... it’s part of me.”

England gave him a small smile. “Look at you. Always looking at the positives.”

“I have to keep it that way.” Falling back against the pillows, he winced a little trying to adjust the wound in his side. “I guess... I’ve probably said some embarrassing things when I’m Johnny, huh?”

***

“You have no idea,” England said flatly. He was glad it didn’t take much persuading at all to convince America what was going on. But the longer England had sat on the concept the more he grew worried. What would happen if the crown sided with America’s split personality? He technically was the same person so would the other personality take control? Or would there be another gown wearing child in an open field somewhere?

“What’s wrong?” America asked when England’s brow furrowed.

“Just thoughts.” England shook his head and another thought appeared. He stared at America before haughtily saying. “So, you were livid that I may have slept with ‘John,’ a technically willing you, when I had just taken you to my bed not so long before that? What do you have to say about that?”

America crossed his arms and a blush spread across his face. “Well, I obviously didn’t remember. Secondly, leaving me alone after you’d had your way with me was pretty darn awful. Thirdly, were you planning on that night being the only one?”

“Not particularly.” A glint appeared in England’s eyes. He was grateful that America had taken a turn. He should have explained himself before he’d gone... there was no way of fixing it now. “Why?”

“No reason,” America said, shrugging, a show of nonchalance. “That’s good to know.”

“No reason? Yes, I agree. Good to know,” England drawled.

“Come closer.”

“Absolutely not,” England scoffed. “I am quite comfortable where I am thank you very much.”

“Well, I can’t exactly come to you.” He gestured to his bandaged body. “And since we seem to have come to some sort of understanding... let me kiss you. Let me erase how I felt that morning.”

“That's very coarse!” England scoffed, color leaping into his cheeks.

“I’ve been around no one but soldiers for months, you know how it gets.” He shrugged. “Are you going to let me kiss you or not?” Even as he’d cradled the anger at England for leaving him and the possibility that he’d gone to another bed, when there was talk of sweethearts... it was always England’s face that came to mind.

“You should consider this a privilege you know.” England sniffed, scooting to the front of the bed “Being allowed to kiss the British Empire. Not everyone is given this privileged opportunity.”

“Not everyone is the United States of America.” He reached up, hooking his fingers around the back of England’s neck and pulling him closer until their lips could meet. He wanted the kiss to last, his heart thudding behind his ribs.

***

Leaning into the younger's touch, England relaxed ever so slightly. Victoria had been right, embarrassingly enough. He was infatuated with the boy, whether or not he agreed with her about being in love, he would agree with some level of infatuation if the fluttering of his heart was anything to go by. How his smell on his night robes had brought him comfort. Turning his head he deepened the kiss, fingers flexing.

***

The cold was chased away and America barely remembered his injuries until England’s hand accidentally brushed against his ribs. The gasp of pain had England pulling away, checking the bandage for fresh blood. “Blast it...” he grumbled, ignoring England’s expression over the slang.

“Well, I guess that's the end to that,” England muttered, sitting back. “Perhaps I'll go see if Mrs. Wilson left things for supper.”

At the mention of the cook, America’s stomach grumbled. “Can you check on Colleen, too? There’s been a bit of a stir around here I’m told and I don’t want her to get caught up,” he said. He adjusted. It would probably only be a few more days if he actually rested, they healed so much faster than humans.

England leveled him with a look. “Yes.” he muttered before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Walking down the hall he stopped in front of Ireland's room and rapped on the door. “Colleen, are you in?”

There was no answer and England closed his fingers on the knob, pushing it open just slightly. The room was obviously lived in, the bedsheets still a mess from the morning. The girl, however, was nowhere to be seen. Heaving a sigh, England headed downstairs to put the kettle on. He was exhausted and his headache had returned. He hoped that a good cup of tea, or as good as one could get here, would help alleviate some of his symptom. Walking down the stairs in a sluggish manner, he made his way towards the kitchen. Mrs. Wilson was nowhere to be found but a covered cutting board suggested she would either return or had left something to eat. The kettle was already full of water and waiting on the on the range. The woman was perfectly prepared.

A glance beneath proved to be cold meats and cheeses. Something simple to tide them over. England gathered some of it up on a plate and slowly made his way back up the stairs, plate in one hand and cup of tea in the other. America was leaning back on the pillows with his eyes closed, but he opened them when England walked in. “I guess you found something in the kitchen, then?”

“No. It’s but a figment of your imagination,” England said dryly as he sat the board on the bed. “There. Eat it.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” America reached out for the food and began to pick at the offering. Sitting on the edge of the bed England nursed his tea gingerly, taking small sips of the hot beverage as he watched the other.

“Just eat it. Honestly, I am privy to your atrocious manners so no need to pretend.”

“Be careful with your flattery, I might get a big head.” He rolled his eyes and smiled at him for a moment, before stuffing his mouth full. Cringing, England shook his head and continued to sip silently at his tea. His fingers which had been cold all day were warmed by the hot glass as did the drink heated his belly. He watched as America tore through the food with gusto.

“Honestly, remember you still need to breathe.”

The insistence that he was fine, came out in a mumble. England rolled his eyes, waiting for the other to finish. “Do you want some?” America said, after he finally managed to swallow.

“No thank you. I might try to eat something tomorrow. We shall see.” England shook his head.

America looked down. “Your illness... does it usually last this long?”

“It used to be longer.” He lifted a shoulder in a small shrug.

“I... how come you never told me?”

“This is not the first you have heard of it.” England frowned. “Matthew has spoke of it to you I know. And I have no desire to speak to you about it.”

“Someday we should. And... you do know you don’t have to suffer alone, right?”

“I would rather be alone than have you there at the time,” England said, voice firm.

America frowned, thoughts crossing his face. “If you change your mind...”

“When pigs fly,” England muttered. “Just finish your supper.”

America ate in silence, glancing up at England every now and then. Stomach full he flexed his wounded leg, drawing it closer to rub at the sprain. “I guess your task is done.”

“Quite,” England drawled before smothering a yawn. “Anything else you need?”

“Will you stay? A few more days?”

“That was the plan. As I am rather tired and, honestly, I expected to spend weeks fighting with you to believe me.”

America smiled. “Well, I’m sure we can find something to fight about if you were looking for one.” Teasing.

“There are much better ways to spend your time.” He yawned, setting the cup down.

“I agree.” America snuggled back into his bed. “You’re making me sleepy... there’s room here.” He pat the bed next to him. England hesitated, but the thought of possibly uninterrupted dreams and a warm body were too good to pass up.

“I spoil you. You know. Bending to your whims as much. But you are ill so it would be horrid manners for me not to oblige” He sniffed and moved further up the bed to slid beneath the blankets. He was exhausted, as was usually the case the second week of July every year. Pulling the blankets up to his chin he stretched up, flexing his toes with a sigh of relief. Even the winter dirt would have been comfortable now.

“Horrid manners...” America chuckled, tucking his head beneath England’s chin.

England scowled. “I thought you were going to sleep.” England sighed as America shifted. “When you do this it reminds of me of when you were a very young boy. Afraid of ghosts and the dark.” He laughed.

“Protect me from the dark, then.” America yawned.

“That’s something I can’t do any longer,” England said, quietly.

“I know... just pretend for a little while. Please?”

England cringed. That brought a whole set of concerns to twist his belly. “Just go to sleep,” he muttered, shifting to get comfortable. America always slept like he did as he had when he was a colony and that unnerved Arthur. But that was something he did not want to dwell on for the time being.

America eased back into sleep easily, unconsciously wrapping his uninjured arm around England’s middle.

***

_July 13, 1863_

“Alfred, I am trying to sleep,” England muttered as fingers being dragged down his spine woke him. The last three days the pair had taken to sleeping together in Alfred’s bed while he healed. England had been more than happy with it, as he was either sleeping or reading a book. The lack of energy he had meshing well with the laziness. More than once had Alfred attempted to start unmentionable activities and each time his injuries proved to be a barrier. The last time resulting in England smacking him upside the head and telling him it was enough. The hot and cold actions were driving him loony. He grouched as the fingers made their way back up his spine but made no move to get off his belly. He was comfortable and had no desire to change that. The clock had chimed the hours of the morning away, ticking towards mid-morning. At least, England assumed so, it had seemed ages since the clock had announced eight a.m.

Nuzzling his ear, America sighed. “My leg doesn’t hurt anymore and my ribs are almost there.”

“You tried that yesterday, Alfred,” he murmured, pointing his toes in a stretch.

“And I’m going to try until it works.” He pressed a kiss to the side of England’s head.

“If your current goal is to put me back to sleep you are doing fine and I appreciate it.” He yawned, turning his head. Warm sunlight poured through the windows right across Alfred’s mattress and them in turn. Keeping everything warm and pleasant. So much sun in this country.

“I was thinking I should get up, I have work to do sometime soon. Can’t just lay here forever.” America’s bare shins bumped against his own. America was always an early riser, the curious hand tugging at his nightshirt was probably the only real reason he was still there in the bed if his story about his renewed health was true.

“Far too early for my tastes.” England yawned again, making no effort to move. The hand on his belly shifted upwards, dragging the fabric of his nightshirt over his legs. Anticipation curled in England’s stomach. He’d inspected America’s wound himself before they’d gone to sleep. Over the last several days the need for the thick bandages had lessened, the mark still sensitive, but not at risk of opening again. England stretched, turning his head in America’s direction. _Hurry up and do something._

“You stay here and keep the bed warm for me. I’m going to go make sure everything is in order for today,” America said, body shifting beneath the blankets and warm body pulling away.

_No, not that._ If America had managed to memorize Locke’s _Treatise on Government_ so that he could get out of staying inside, he had to remember what had passed between them before and what to do! “Terrible host to leave me here lonely,” England murmured, shifting just slightly so that his hand could come in contact with America’s chest.

He took the hint and leaned up so that he could kiss the corner of England’s mouth. The kisses that sent England’s heart thumping to rather embarrassing rate had been lovely, but... he wanted more. He felt America hesitate. England knew his mouth tasted coppery, the cough still not quite gone. Maybe America was afraid of being hurt again. England didn’t know what to do about that, no one else he’d been with took such things so personally.“I’ll try to be back soon,” America insisted.

“You’re really going to leave me? Here, alone in our bed?” _I’m not having it. You’re... well, I’m not entirely sure what you mean to me..._ he decided not to think too hard on it. England pulled America into another kiss, slowly blinking away sleep. Hitching up America’s nightshirt, he hooked a leg over his hip. America rolled on top of him and England hitched his other leg around him. He felt good there. Too good.

“Our bed?” America asked, his lips still brushing England’s own. England’s arms hooked around his neck. He could almost taste the guilt hovering in America’s mind that he’d been selfish enough to stay in this bed with him. There were so many things America needed to learn, that he wanted to teach him. England pulled away slightly, discomfort welling in his gut. He shouldn’t want that, but there it was.

“Fine, your bed,” England drawled before leveling him with a look. Directness was usually key. “Now do you want to talk, or do you want to have sex with me?” he asked bluntly, before smothering a yawn.

“I like the sound of ‘our bed’.” Shifting, America pressed his face into the crook of England’s neck, his mouth warm and wet on his collar bone. England could feel the twitch of America’s body against his own, sending his own anticipation growing. “Although, the question really is whether you want me to shirk my duty? Because the answer to your latter question is yes.”

Desire spiked in England’s gut and he flushed at America’s reaction to the press of him against his belly. _Yes._ There was so much power in that word. “You’re an adult, a nation as you like to fondly remind me. Make your own decisions.” His mouth found the soft skin behind America’s ear, placing a hard bite. “What shall it be?”

The silence stretched for a minute, the clock began to chime nine o’ clock. When the last bell completed its chime, America’s lips pressed close to England’s ear. “I can steal one more day,” he said, pulling away and sitting up. He grinned at him, using England’s nightshirt to tug him closer. England’s body slid, his thighs tightening around America’s hips as he shifted to get his balance. Perhaps he was learning.

“Good choice.” England grinned up at him, ankles locking at America's lower back, hands reaching up to grab him by the neck to hoist himself up into a crushing kiss. England took no time before forcing his way into America's mouth with a hiss of success.

Meeting him in the kiss, America’s pulled England’s nightshirt up, the feel of the summer morning air striking his belly and thighs, then his chest. He moved his arms so America could remove it, the cloth dropping off onto the floor on the side of the bed. America’s fingers settled on England’s hip, thumb pressing into his belly.

“Oy! Careful,” England grunted flicked at his hand, “Don't press on my stomach like that.” he grouched. Pausing he stared at America. “One moment.” He climbed off America’s lap leaving the boy wide eyed.

“Where are you going?” England just lifted a shoulder, enjoying the feeling of America’s eyes on his backside. He could hear shifting on the bed.

“You stay there and get undressed,” he ordered, casting a glance over his shoulder, not wanting to miss the reveal of America’s skin. A flush spread across his own skin. No, he hadn’t imagined the way he’d felt the last time they were like this. He forced himself to draw his eyes away and go to the bag. When he’d brought it, he told himself that this wasn’t his intention, but then again, he was fond of lying to himself when it suited him.

“This is the sort of thing we needed last time,” he said, returning to the bed and dropping the small glass jar on the bedside table. Climbing back onto the bed, America grabbed him eagerly, pushing him down into the sheets. England met his eagerness with his own. What America lacked in experience, he more than made up with enthusiasm. The shyness that had been endearing in its own way was fading fast. England couldn’t make himself miss it, not when he had the current version of America in his arms.

“You have far too much control for how young you are.” England drawled pushing against America's chest till he was straddling the boys hips. Dragging his finger down America's sternum he followed the small trail of blonde hair.

“If you tell me a story about your escapades in the 1400s or whenever it would have been, I’ll have to kiss you until you stop.”

“That might make it worth it.” England grinned down at him. He shifted his body a little and felt America squirm. Every emotion showed on his face when he was like this. He couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him, feel those expressions up close. His mouth drifted from America’s and settled on his ear. “Now...what next? Rope? Blindfold?”

England’s fingers on America’s stomach drifted lower and America lost his train of thought, the question coming out in only one word. “Rope?”

“Yes rope... or the wall. No, not the wall I couldn't hold you up that long... there’s so much more than what we did last time.”

“I could hold you up.” His hands settled on England’s thighs.

England arched a brow. A cough welled in his chest, but he stifled it. _I need to be in control today._ He didn’t want to think about how possessive America was making him feel. The offer was set aside for later. “Not today. I don’t trust that leg of yours.” Leaning over he pulled America into a kiss. America kissed him back, sliding his hands over England’s backside and up his back. The offer continued to burn in England’s senses as America kissed him back.

“I want...” America gasped, his words coming short as England reached for the bottle with one hand. He muffled a curse when their hips brushed together. He’d been thinking about this for too long... he wanted to savor it. Getting the bottle open he slicked his hand, taking them both within the circle of his palm and leaning over America.

“What do you want?”

“Fuck...”

“We’re getting there.”

“No, I want...” America squeezed his eyes shut the words fleeting from his brain. England hoped he never lost that. _Was I just thinking of this as long term? No... these things never last..._ He pushed that away. America was underneath him now. “I wanted... to do... to you...” His hands were warm on England’s hips, then sliding forward and their hands joining together.

“I have a few more things to show you first,” England said, eyes half closing. He kissed him. The room was hot, their bodies still smelling of sleep. He considered. America’s eyes were so honest, too honest. He remembered the words he’d only said once, _I love you._ Did he mean it or was it the heat of the moment? Would he say them again? Fishing for his clean handkerchief, England dropped it onto America’s face. “Tie this around your eyes.”

“What are you going to do, put me in front of the firing squad?”

England chuckled. “Something like that.” America did as he was asked and England set out to dirty the body that still felt so achingly innocent with the way he quivered under his hands, his mouth. It felt new, raw. _Was I ever like this? No, because he’s the New World and I lost him._ He caught the cough on the sheets and he felt America’s hand on his head. _No, we’re here now. Focus._ When England worked himself between America’s legs, they stilled for a moment and America pushed up the handkerchief over his eyes with one hand. His mouth was slightly parted and swollen from the kisses. Too open. England tugged it back down and let the pull of America’s body steal his mind.

He lay on America’s chest for several minutes after they’d finished, sweat cooling on their skin and their breathing going back to normal. “Is it always like that?” America asked, his fingers rubbing circles into England’s back.

“No. It’s not.” The honesty fell from his mouth before he could stop it. America was more than a satisfying fuck. He felt like the world was somehow in balance.

“What do you mean?”

England frowned and pulled out of his embrace to go to the wash basin. He used the distance to put his thoughts in order, push away the troublesome ones. He tossed a damp cloth to America, but didn’t look at him until the soiled cloth was being tossed back. Before America could speak, England climbed back into the bed with him, settling his head on America’s chest. America wrapped his arms around him. England closed his eyes, determined to enjoy the feeling of being encased by a lover’s body. No, not just any lover’s body. America’s body.

***

The clock was chiming noon. Ding, ding, ding... on and on until it reached twelve. America blinked awake, the room well lit in the midday sun. He really should get up. England’s hair brushed his chin and America shifted, wanting to watch his sleeping face. He brushed his lips against England’s and felt the other respond sleepily. The war felt far away, a hazy memory in the soreness of his ribs and the discomfort of the welt across his stomach. A noise caught his attention. A crash, the sound of glass shattering. He pulled back and shook England a little to wake him up. “Do you hear that?” Shouts could be heard in the distance, not a single voice, but multiplied dozens of times. A crowd.

“It’s during a war. That happens.” England muttered, rolling over to sprawl beneath the blankets. “I thought you were going to convince me to join in on another round. You were getting close to convincing me,” he drawled, dragging a leg up along America’s. “Come now.”

Gathering him up in his arms, America turned back to him, pulling England closer and drawing him back into a kiss. He tried to ignore it, then another crash and a scream. A banging on the front door. “Stay here,” America said, climbing over England. He was still limping slightly, but he pulled on his trousers and shirt and went down the stairs. He pulled open the door to reveal a frantic looking young policeman.

“Uh, Captain Jones?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Riots, sir, they want you to come to the police station. They’re calling in the militia... someone said to come alert you.” The young man nervously looked down the street.

“What’s it about?”

“I think it started about the draft, sir, but... it’s... the poor quarters. Germans, Polish, Irish... It’s not safe anywhere.”

“Go back to the station, I’ll be there presently.” The young man nodded and hurried off. Closing the door, America ignored the twinge in his ankle as he hurried up the stairs. England was sitting up, looking at him with a furrow on his brow. “I have to go. There’s a riot in the city... I have to find Colleen and then I have to do something.” He went to his wardrobe and began pulling things on.

He turned to find England watching him. He leaned back on his hands, blankets pooled around his waist. “I'm not sure if I would be any of any help, You know since your people don’t take kindly to the British at the moment.”

“Stay here and be safe.” America walked out of the bedroom and returned a moment later with his army rifle and a cartridge box. Something felt off about the rumble that seemed to start vibrating under his skin. He had thought he’d become numb to anger, but it still broiled through him starting to make his stomach turn. “Use it to scare someone if you have to... if things get too bad or the place catches fire or something... I want you to get out of the city. I’ll find you. Don’t come looking for me.”

England’s eyes widened and his eyebrows went up. “I’m sure you’re overreacting. It can't be that bad of a riot.” England frowned, scooting out of bed. “Where's Colleen? What has she got to do with all of this?”

“The riot started in the immigrant part of the city. She’s been... unhappy with how her people are getting mixed up in the war. Congress passed a provision that men would be drafted by lottery... the politicians have been working hard to get people registered as citizens. And as a citizen, they’re being asked to step up and fight for me.” His hands were starting to shake and he took a deep breath, trying to fix the buttons on his waistcoat. “Some of that correspondence that came yesterday. It was about an incident that happened when they started doing to the drawings. Some people set the draft office on fire.”

England stared at him. “So, are they actually citizens? Or not yet?”

“They’re citizens, they signed the paperwork. They are Americans.”

England relaxed ever so slightly. He had been worried that America had been forcing non-Americans to fight. Particularly his own citizens, which the Confederacy was already in hot water for doing. “But, if Colleen is involved that means I must be involved. She is my responsibility after all.” He got up, reaching for his clean trousers.

America didn’t stop him as he got dressed. He stood near the window, watching up and down the street. “If you come, I want you to stay behind me. And don’t say anything to anyone. They might be Americans now, but... well, a good portion of the mob immigrated here to get away from you. And Colleen probably won’t take kindly to you trying to get her.”

“Well she needs to remember her place then,” England snapped as he buttoned his vest.

America walked over to the bed, tucking the discarded weapons behind the wardrobe, hiding it in case the house was broken into. He walked back over to England and paused. “Let’s go. We’ll see what we can do by sundown and then come back. Hopefully, it’ll all be over by then.”

“That is something to look forward to I suppose.” England sighed, running his hands through his hair.

***

_Evening July 13, 1863_

Every step on his right leg hurt, but he was determined not to ask England to help him as they stumbled up towards the house. The rain that pounded their head and shoulders had sent the rioters home, but America could feel in his stomach that things weren’t over. The day had started with the public buildings, but had ended with the destruction of anything related to the free blacks in the city. America rubbed at his middle, at the mark of the Civil War. They turned onto his street and the rain had put out the flames on the burnt out husk of one his neighbors. Most of the others the windows had been smashed and the doors flung open. He paused on his front steps, looking down at the shattered glass. The second set of footsteps that followed him paused. He felt a hand at the small of his back. He turned to look at England.

“I’m sorry you had to... see that,” he said. Although it wasn’t like England wouldn’t have heard about it. There were British correspondents for the _New York Times_ and the _New York Tribune._ “Thank you for helping with the children at the orphan’s asylum. I’m glad we got them away before they could get hurt.” They hadn’t found the child they were looking for, however. Colleen seemed to have disappeared into the heart of the city. He had a feeling he knew where, but he didn’t want England there. Throwing him a smile he didn’t really feel, he walked up the steps and into the house. 

“It's not like I haven’t seen my own share of riots.” England sighed, shedding his hat and coat, hanging the wet articles of clothing on the coat rack by the door, He was exhausted, he always did tire easily after his round of sickness. At least for the first week. Locking the door behind him he turned to watch America “Is she still here? I can’t sense her which means she is nowhere close, but this is your country. Is she here?”

“I have a guess, but it would be dangerous to go now. Even without the riots.” He shrugged out of coat, the chill settling in. “She’s still here though. I can feel it.”

“If it’s dangerous for us it is doubly dangerous for a woman, Alfred. We can’t leave her out there.”

America put a hand on the wall, trying to relieve some of the pain in his leg. “She’s protected. I nearly got stabbed trying to extricate her out of the Five Points before. She didn’t want to come and, well, let’s just say I got a hole in my coat for it.”

“Excuse me!” England gasped. “She’s in that dangerous of a place!”

“I would say the newspapers exaggerate... but there is a bit of truth to it,” he said, “If you really want to have a go at it... I can talk to the nativists. Not that she’d be with them, but it’s also less likely we’ll get shot. And the other gangs will talk to me, I mean they came here... but they miss their old home and she is Ireland.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll go now, but you’ll have to stay here. If she said who you are... I don’t want you to get hurt. If there’s one thing the nativists and the American Irish have in common, it’s that they hate the idea of Britain.”

England bristled. “You are not going without me.”

“Trust me, I can give it a go. If I’m not back by sunrise, then I’ll be with the military. They are worried the militias will be too rough. The rioters won’t come back this way, they already made a mess of the place.” He pulled himself up as best he could and squared his shoulders. 

“You go with me or you don’t go at all Alfred Fitzgerald Jones!” England snapped.

“Then we don’t go!” America settled his hands on his hips. “Arthur, I can’t do what I would need to do if I’m worrying about you.”

“Worrying about me?!” England spat. “I am not wet behind the ears, you whelp!”

America turned away from him, hands clenched into fists. He ran his hands through his hair, wincing at the pulling of the still healing wound on his ribs. He sighed, turning back around. “You can’t treat me like I’m inferior to you. You’re going to have to follow my lead. These are _my_ lands and _my_ people.”

“I am not treating you as an inferior!”

“You act like I have no right to worry about you! Or protect you!”

“I just told you that you didn’t need to!”

“It’s not a matter of whether I need to or not. I do!”

“That does not even make any sense!” England threw his hands into the air before storming towards the stairwell.

“It makes no sense to you that I don’t want to see you hurt?!” America followed after him, ignoring the pain each step sent through his hip.

“You! Your-your Greek hero complex or whatever else you have going on!” he growled as they entered the room, England undoing his vest.

“Why do you have such a problem with the fact that I might be able to do something you can’t?” He threw up his hands. “But all right then, I’m the hero.”

“Not my words!” England whirled around jabbing him in the chest. “You have displayed such attitudes and thoughtless obsessions since I read the epics to you as a child.”

“And why not?!” He caught hold of England’s wrist and kept him from pulling away. “This isn’t about Homer. This is about you not giving me an inch.”

“An inch where!?” England hissed trying to pull away. “Anytime I gave an inch you took a mile and more!”

America shook his head, releasing him. He limped around England to his bed. The sheets had been flung around from the thieves, but the linens had been too much to carry away. He knew he was getting the bed wet, but he couldn’t be bothered. “I don’t have the energy to argue about this. Do you want me to go or not?”

“I don't even know why this was an argument in the first place!”

“Do you seriously want to argue about arguing now?”

“No!” England snapped yanking off his vest. “I'd rather not be sopping wet and still walking about.”

“Sounds grand.” America huffed. “We wouldn’t still be sopping wet if you’d just listened to and accepted my plan. I’ll change and then I’m going. Just stay here.”

“Oh sod off!” he snapped unbuttoning his shirt and draping it carefully over the chair to air dry. Grabbing the nightgown he was borrowing he yanked it over his head “Well don't just sit there! You'll catch your death!”

He did feel cold. It had seeped into his body making him feel stiff. It felt as though all the rest of the last several days had served nothing. Now he was irritated with England on top of it. He shifted, angrily yanking the hem of his shirt out of his trousers so he could work the buttons. He struggled with it as the wet fabric caught on his elbows and hands, it fell to the floor and the effort to pick it up wasn’t energy he had. His head hurt.

England rolled his eyes as he slid out of his trousers and laid them out. Bending over he snatched America's off the floor and hung it up. “Honestly.”

Not thinking, America worked on his trousers. These were more difficult due to the twinge of pain the he refused to allow any more acknowledgement. They were followed by his wet socks and long underwear. Not caring whether England was watching him or not he want to the wardrobe and redressed. England sat down on the edge of the bed in his nightshirt. The paleness of his skin matched the white of the fabric and America didn’t relish the idea of going back out into the night.

“You are seriously leaving?” England stared at him in disbelief.

“As much as I want to stay with you, I have to take care of my people.” Hoisting himself off the bed, America walked over to his wardrobe and began pulling on his clothes. America stopped by the side of the bed, his fingers brushing the back of England’s hand. “Wait for me.”

England yanked his hand away.

***

_July 14, 1863_

_New York City_

England hated the fact that he could sleep. He hated the fact that he’d stayed here like a wife waiting for her soldier to come home. Damn it all! America hadn’t even said when he would be back! England kicked back the blankets and got up, grabbing the bed post when he doubled over with another cough. He pulled back his hand and was disappointed to see the specks of blood. It never lasted this long. Balling his fist, he made his way to his luggage, dressing. He was going out into the city, even if the smoke from burning buildings and the noise of rifles and yelling had only gotten louder in the distant parts. As an afterthought, England dug into his bag. The thieves hadn’t found the bowie knife that America, as Confederacy, had given him. He hated to keep it, but it was a good blade. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it.

Many of the streets he walked down were deserted, people either staying in their homes or the mob having already run through. His shoes crunched over broken glass, chipped brick. There was a rumble in the city. He tried to picture the layout in his head. He’d examined the maps while he was waiting in America’s house, amazed at how complex the city had become in so short of a time. The buildings began to change from the obvious wealth of uptown towards the older or quickly constructed buildings of the tenements that surrounded factories. Those buildings were eerily quiet, their workforce on strike. He tried to map it onto his memory of New York, walking down the streets with General Clinton so many years ago. It was a whole new place built on the bones of the old.

Hearing a fight up ahead, he ducked away, going down an alley and keeping watch on every door frame should someone try to do anything. He was lucky, not a single soul showing themselves.

“Alfred, you don’t understand!” The Irish brogue caught his attention and he went toward the voice.

“What don’t I understand?” America’s voice sounded back. They were somewhere nearby, their shouts echoing off the buildings. England couldn’t hear Colleen’s response as something exploded a few blocks away. “Colleen, just give me the pistol.”

“No!” England slowed as he reached the junction with the street. Their voices closer. “You were supposed to help me!”

“I never promised you or your brother that. I’m doing my best!”

“No, you do your best for some, but not for all. You’re a bloody, fucking liar! You have to hear them, if they knew they were just going to starve in the streets here they would have stayed home!”

“When the war is over...”

“You think this war will ever be fucking over!? The battles might stop, but you’ll be fighting forever. It’s like when my brother agreed to join the United Kingdom, the battles stopped, but the war still rages on! And here you are, actually free of him and you let him into your bed like nothing ever happened!”

“You don’t have to understand that.” America’s footsteps could be heard on the cobbles of the street. England glanced around the corner. The street had been abandoned, Colleen and America the only ones there. The girl stood, her red hair tangled around her face. Her clothes were a hodgepodge of patterns and colors, a fashion wrought from taking whatever people could find. She still wore the Union military jacket unbuttoned over her bodice.

“Oh, I don’t. You take one more step and I will shoot you.”

“Colleen...”

“Stop!” He’d done it before his mind caught up with him. England was walking towards them. “Colleen, I will take you home. If your fight is with me, we don’t have to do it in Alfred’s streets.” The pistol in her hand shook. It was an old one, single shot, no accuracy unless she was close. Or had excellent aim. England had no way of knowing. America stared at him, eyes wide.

“Arthur...”

“Look, Alfred, the Mother Country has arrived to make everything better. He claimed he tamed my country and made us civilized. It only took war, threats, death, and starvation. Or are you not using that line anymore?” The pistol swung from America to England. “You might as well come back into the fold, Alfred, we can all be one big happy family under his iron fist. You probably won’t be the only one of us he’s fucked several times over.”

“You should watch your tongue,” England said. “I dread to think where you heard such language.”

“Where else? From Englishmen.” If she was the older Ireland she would have spat something at him in the old languages. England had the sinking realization of something he’d only half acknowledged. She was modern. She was the result of things they’d done.

“Colleen, we don’t have to do this here,” England said, holding his hands out. If he moved quickly enough, he might be able to get the weapon from her.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Boom. England found himself on his back on the cobblestones. His vision blacked for a moment when his head struck the ground. Blood. He could smell it. His own? No, other than the pain from being pushed to the ground, he couldn’t feel the painful piercing of the wound from a pistol ball.

“Alfred! Why did you get in the way!?” Tears were in her voice now. Her footsteps tapped on the stones. England pushed himself up as the girl dropped to her knees, hands scrambling at America’s coat. His face was pale, but he sat up. Blood was soaking into the side of his coat.

“It’s nothing. Is Arthur all right?”

“You daft idiot! You’re asking about me when you’ve been shot?!” England was kneeling over him too, trying to get a look at how bad the damage was from the wound.

“It’s just a graze.” Colleen was crying, her face buried in her skirts. America wrapped an arm around her shoulders. England stared at them, he was forgiving her even as his blood was dripping into the street.

“I want to go home,” she sobbed. “I don’t know who I am anymore...”

“Shhh, I’ll get you home.” America looked up at him. England couldn’t help but notice his eyes weren’t as bright as they’d been when he’d pulled away from him last night. It was more than tiredness. John was behind his eyes now. England felt as though he’d swallowed ice. “Can you take her? Put her on a ship? The docks... they’re probably chaotic right now. I have to...” He pushed himself to his feet.

“The only place you should be going is back to your sick bed.”

“No, it’s just a scratch I’m fine. Arthur, I need you to take her.” England turned to look at the girl. She didn’t look back at him, cheeks smudged with soot and arms wrapped around her boney frame. England didn’t care that she was there, he walked up to America and put his hands on his cheeks.

“I’m going to come back. Don’t go, Alfred.” He stressed his name.

“Don’t worry, Arthur.” His voice was already changing. “Just go before it gets worse and you won’t be able to leave at all.”

England pulled him closer and kissed him, hoping it would be enough of a promise to keep America from slipping back. From doing anything else stupidly heroic before the day was done. He would take Colleen quickly and return once she was safely on board. Desperation clutched at his chest. America felt like he was slipping out of his fingers.

When the plank was pulled up behind him on the ship, England nearly jumped overboard to get back on land. He watched until the shoreline slipped away, leaving the fires of the city a speck on the horizon and then he could not see them at all.

_I won’t lose you, again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! We love getting your comments and kudos! 
> 
> We're getting close to the end of Book 3! (But don't worry, we've got a set of interlude stories in the works and have started on Book 4!) Next up: The defeat of the Confederacy becomes imminent. Canada gains autonomy. England holds the hand of a dying nation.


	23. It Comes to a Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Union and the Confederacy can feel the end of the war, but each has a few challenges to yet overcome before it can be done. England can't look away anymore when a certain young nation arrives on his shores.

_August 20th, 1863_

_Aubrey House_

_London, England_

“We are here to completely eradicate all and any pro-slavery material here in Britain! The British people must fully understand and support the Union's efforts in the civil war!” Clementia Taylor’s voice bellowed out over thecrowd of women gathered at the Aubrey house. England watched silently, one of the few men in attendance, the other at his side.

“Arthur, isn't the group that formed in response to that woman’s letter?” Canada said quietly, yet was somehow still audible over the group’s cheering.

“Harriet Beecher Stowe. It was published in the Atlantic Monthly back in January.” England confirmed. “She reached out to the women of my nation asking them to support the north in the war.”

“And it took this long for one to set up?” Canada asked in surprise.

“No, it was because she tried and we fought against it.” England shook his head with a scowl. “Ms. Taylor up there tried to get into the London Anti-Slavery Society, but was rejected and so in turn she created this. The Ladies’ London Emancipation Society.” He smiled now “I am hoping that they begin to work hand in hand.”

“Do you think they will have a big effect?” Canada asked as the women began to discuss producing their own works of anti-slavery literature. 

“On the public's view of who to side with, that is quite possible.” England nodded. “This war of Alfred’s is causing all of Europe to argue with each other. If he wanted to make a lot of noise than that is what he has done.” England sighed. “Oh come now, you know I don’t mean it in that kind of way, Matthew,” he added, noticing Canada’s less than amused look.

“Is she the only one who started this?”

“No.” England shook his head and gestured to some of the women standing in the front. “There is Mary Estlin, Harriet Martineau, Eliza Wigham... those are just some of the committee members.” He shifted. They had arrived fairly early and had spent the morning on their feet traversing over several areas of London before. “It will be interesting to see the effect they have on public opinion. Whether or not the public has a shift of stances.”

***

_September 1864_

_Washington DC_

America knew he should get up. At any rate, he needed to put another log on the fire, but he found that he was unable to muster any energy for it. He simply pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he laid on the rug in front of the fireplace. The offensive had begun into the south and he felt that at any moment he could lose himself entirely. The voice was back in his head. Confederacy always lurking there waiting to grab him in a moment of weakness.

The front door opened and America realized he hadn’t locked it. He’d been in a haze since he’d returned from Spotsylvania, Virginia. He’d dragged himself to the train, closed himself in the compartment, ordering the men outside not to let him out no matter what he said. Confederacy couldn’t be allowed to back and bolster those that still believed in him. They were becoming fewer and fewer as more people just wanted it to be over. Pride. It felt like it could kill him.

Maybe whoever had come through the front door would take care of that problem.

“Alfred?” The footsteps were close and America sighed a breath of relief when he heard the voice. “What are you doing on the floor?” Canada asked.

“I laid down and haven’t bothered to get back up,” he replied. “Matt, I’m so tired.”

Canada was silent, pulling him up and hooking an arm over his shoulder. America could barely put one foot in front of the other. His head drooped against Canada’s shoulder. “You can do this, come on,” he said, encouraging him up towards his bedroom. America sank onto the edge of the bed once Canada got him into his bedroom, his eyes feeling unfocused. He’d found his glasses the other day, from where he must have hidden them from himself. Canada snapped his fingers in front of his face, jolting America out of his thoughts. “You need to stay with me.”

“I think... he might be too weak so you don’t have to worry about him.”

“It’s you I’m worried about. I get back from London and find out that even though you have more support than ever you’ve taken to locking yourself up here? That’s not like you at all.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” America leaned back, the mattress sinking under his weight. Canada came over from where he’d been gathering a wet washcloth. The fabric felt cool on America’s skin, as Canada brushed it over his cheeks. He must have been feverish. He couldn’t remember how long that had been going on. “Why were you in London?”

“You know that I’m probably going to be independent soon...”

“I can’t believe England is just giving it to you because you asked.”

“Well, it might have something to do with you.”

“I know. You think I’ll turn around and attack you... I’m so tired of war, Matt. And even when this is done... I don’t think I’m done. The battles out West...”

“Shhh. You can worry about that when you’re finished with this war.” Canada helped him get into the bed and pulled the covers over him. “The papers keep saying things will be over soon.”

“The northern ones. General Sherman still has work to do in the Deep South...” America began coughing, turning onto his side so that he could get a better angle of his body for breath. Canada’s hands hovered over him, wanting to comfort him, but not sure how. “I... don’t...” he took a deep breath between each word, “know... how... long... that... will... take.”

Canada’s brow furrowed, but he climbed up on the bed next to America. America leaned into him. It felt familiar, although it was usually him holding Canada when he was scared when they were little. He let his eyes drift shut as Canada made soothing sounds and gestures. “You just have to hold on.”

“Talk to me about something else,” America said, not sure if he could make any promises about holding on.

“Arthur... he knows about me and Francis.”

“I thought you stopped sleeping with him.”

“I did... and then I didn’t.”

America chuckled into his brother’s shoulder. “What did Arthur make of that?”

“He thinks Francis will hurt me.”

“Didn’t he?” America asked, remembering Canada’s coolness towards the other in the earlier half of the century. Canada was quiet.

“Did you sleep with Arthur? When he visited me... he was different. He’s been deep into following what his people think about you. More so than he ever was before. I tried to ask, but he was rather defensive.”

America coughed, surprised by how directly Canada asked the question. “Yeah, in D.C. he left me without saying goodbye the next morning.”

“He what?!”

“Then when he came back last year... after Gettysburg... I forgave him. Is that what you did with France? You wanted him more than your anger?” America felt his words trail off into muttering, his body feeling heavy with exhaustion.

“I think that’s it. We hurt each other and then forgive each other.”

“Do you think Arthur will come back again?”

“I don’t know, but you’re going to have to hold on if you want to find out.”

“I just want to sleep for a while.” Canada nodded and America was dragged down into a dreamless sleep.

***

_October 10, 1864_

_Quebec Conference_

_Canada_

England watched Canada silently as he kept pace with the tense blonde as he went over paperwork, power walking down the long hall. It wasn’t often that England saw the shaggy haired blond with ruffled feathers and while it was disconcerting from a caring, emotional standpoint it was also a small moment of pride. This was the kind of thing that a growing nation, while panicking, should be heavily involved with and giving it their utmost attention. To England it meant that he had done something right in his raising of the two north American colonies. The incident with America would forever be tucked away in a storage room, attempts to ever shine light on it avoided at all costs.

“So there shall be thirty-two delegates here today. Upper and Lower Canada, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, and Prince Edward Island respectively.” Canada nearly tripped over his words in haste. “All will have calling cards with name and photograph so that there is no confusion as to who is representing where and who is in attendance.” Violet eyes flicked over the ink written words anxiously and England offered a little prodding.

“And what is the foreseen largest issue that shall be covered?” England prompted.

“Legislative Union.” Canada looked up sharply, peering at England through his spectacles.

“And how do you know this?”

“I anticipate that much that will be discussed today will tie rather closely into the Charlottetown conference.”

“Which is something that I was not present for so, I ask that you enlighten me, so that I will not be completely unaware of what is to take place at today’s proceedings.”

“Well… most of the conference was spent discussing the pros and cons of having a widespread Canadian union. The majority of the maritime representatives believed that this would be beneficial to all of Canada.”

“The majority?”

“Well, everyone but the representatives from Prince Edward island,” Canada admitted as they stopped in front of the doors leading to the conference hall.

“And what started all of this?” England prompted, although he was more than aware of the reasons, he wanted to hear it from Canada’s mouth. The violet eyed blond hesitated, straightening the cuffs of his already pristine jacket. England waited patiently. He always had had more patience with the quiet American colony than any of the others.

“Everyone is concerned... about American military expansion... and... well, Great Britain's decreasing will to defend the North American colonies,” he added, tentative, a look of surprise masking his features when England only nodded in acknowledgement.

“I have been aware of all of these concerns. I told you, I would be paying closer attention to events over hear because of Alfred’s civil war.” England placed a hand on Canada’s shoulder.   
“I told you that we would get through this, Matthew.” He smiled at the quiet blond who gave a nervous smile in return.England gestured for the door. “Well, let's go get this taken care of.”

***

_April 14, 1865_

_Washington, D.C._

“I don’t know if I want to go to the theater tonight,” America said, leaning on the walking stick he’d been given.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight, you gave everyone such a fright!” said Mary Lincoln, walking over to adjust America’s tie. He hadn’t known what happened until he woke up and was told it was February. He’d lain down in the fall and hadn’t gotten up until midwinter. Everyone had been acting as though they were on pins and needles around him ever since. “We have reasons to celebrate. The war is over now. The Army of Northern Virginia has surrendered. Our army took Richmond. It’ll be sore luck to say anything more.”

She walked away to attend to gathering her bonnet and gloves for the theater. America turned to look at President Lincoln who was as pale and haggard as he was. “I feel like today is a good day, Alfred and we must go, the newspapers said we would.”

“Mary says it’s bad luck to be too upfront with happiness.” He glanced over at the woman who had been obliged to stay home herself, a headache weighing her down.

“She means well. She’s worried about that dream of mine.”

“The one where you’re dead? Or the one on the ship?” America asked. It had felt like a premonition every time Mr. Lincoln had mentioned the dream where he was walking through the white house and finding a dead man whose face was covered. He would ask the soldiers guarding the body who was dead. They would always respond that it was the president. Other times, he’d mentioned that he’d dreamed he was on a ship to a dark and distant shore. America remembered that one from right before the Battle of Antietam.

Lincoln nodded, giving him a small smile. “Today, there will be nothing but happiness. I’ve heard that _Our American Cousin_ is quite amusing.”

“It seems the sort of thing one of Arthur’s playwrights would create. Making fun of me.” America offered a half smile of his own. “I guess I can summon up the effort to go.”

“See, now that makes me happy as well. I suppose it’s time to go, although, I too, would rather stay.”

***

America leaned back in his seat, watching the play from between the Lincolns and Major Henry Rathbone and his fiance, Clara Harris. America knew both New Yorkers well and was feeling lifted in his spirits as the play wore on. He glanced over at the president and his wife several times, the two with their heads close together and Abe holding Mary’s hand.

“What will Alfred and Miss Harris think of me holding onto you so?” Mary asked her husband.

“They won’t think anything of it,” Lincoln replied, smiling at her. America’s heart ached for a moment. He wanted to be loved like that, to be able to make someone smile. Would Arthur ever let him close enough?

The play went on, America trying to ignore the strange feeling he had at the back of his mind. Confederacy had been silent for so long, that when America heard his voice, he sat bolt upright in his chair. _I’m not done,_ he said. **_Yes, you are._** _So sure are you? I’m still here._

America rubbed at his temple, trying to focus on the actors saying their lines. He couldn’t hear much over the sound of the voices echoing through the theater. _I always told you I would win, one way or another._ ** _Go away, you’re defeated!_** _Not while someone still carries hope for me._ There was a slight sound at the back of the box and America felt the air from the door hit the back of his neck. He turned to look. The theater was filled with laughter as the man stepped into the box. America recognized him, he was a popular actor after all, he’d seen him in things. He didn’t even have time to process the question of what he was doing there when the pistol was drawn.

“L--” America started.

Bang.

The whole world seemed to slow as the people around him reacted. Rathbone jumped up from his seat to try and grab the man, while Lincoln slumped backward in his chair, blood dripping from the side of his skull. The women in the box were screaming. The flash of a knife and John Wilkes Booth had freed himself from Rathbone’s grip, leaping to the stage.

“Stop that man!” shouted Rathbone, awakening the people in the rest of the theater to what had just happened. It wasn’t part of the play.

President Lincoln had just been shot.

America felt as if he’d been dunked into a frozen pond. Nothing made sense. He was drowning and he couldn’t save himself, the pond had frozen over above his head. Someone tugged at him, Miss Harris, and tried to walk him out of the way so that others could attend to the President. His walking stick slipped out of his fingers and he fell, the young woman unable to hold him up.

From the floor, he watched as they carried the President out. America couldn’t tell whether he was still breathing or not. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision as his head felt like it was splitting open.

_I told you I wasn’t done._

***

_November 7, 1865_

_Liverpool, England_

England couldn’t believe the news when he heard it. That the infamous _CSS Shenandoah_ had sailed into his waters to avoid being taken by the Union Navy in the wake of the surrender of the Confederate Army. She had dropped anchor near the Mersey Bar waiting for a pilot who had refused to sail a ship with no flag. The ship had raised its Palmetto flag, showing to all to whom it belonged. Everyone had read about the ship in the papers and it didn’t take long for the word to spread up and down the riverbank outside Liverpool. The ship had surrendered to the _HMS Donegal,_ who had been patrolling the waters.

It was now awaiting its fate. The question of what to do with the sailors was a tricky one. Many of them were his own citizens, the rest unmentioned in the treaties of amnesty for Confederate soldiers. Word was that they had feared being treated as pirates had already spread. England could feel sympathy for them in that regard. One moment your ship could be filled with privateers, but when the political wind changed you were branded as pirates and not subject to any mercy.

When the messenger had come with the news, England hadn’t thought anything of it. There had been multiple reports of Confederate ships sailing into territories where the United States wouldn’t push for their return. They could surrender and go free. However, when he acknowledged the message, the man continued to stand there. “Is there something else?”

“There was a very ill man aboard, sir, he was asking for you by name. He asked me to give you this.”

With hesitation, England reached out and took the scrap of paper. He recognized the script. Too many letters had crossed his desk with its content.

_Please, I need to speak with you. Yours, Johnny._

***

Acid was something that always left a foul taste in the back of his throat. The taste was annoying as England jogged up the gangplank of the _Shenandoah_ , several men stared at him as if he was a messenger bringing news of their fate. It appeared many of them were not pleased to see another on their ship. “You get in the way of an English Lord in English waters I'll have this ship sunk so fast you won't even realize you all are drowning,” England snapped as a man stepped forward. Running down the narrow steps into the hold, he moved through narrow quarters that reeked of sweat and fear. The nervous messenger pointed to a door and England knocked it open.

America was laying in a berth, and as England approached him he felt a sense of trepidation. All the reports had said that the Confederacy had been defeated. There was no reason why America would sign the letter that way. He shouldn’t have been on a Confederate privateering ship at all. His back was to him, a blanket pulled up over his head. “Is that you, Arthur?” came a voice. It was a raspy whisper and he couldn’t tell if it had the tell-tale accent.

England settled onto the edge of the mattress, muscles tensed to bolt like a nervous stag. “Who am I talking to?”

“Who else? Am I in England? Don’t let him destroy me...” There it was, the elongated vowels. He rolled onto his back, covered in sweat, his hair damp with it and sticking to his forehead. His eyes were gray-blue when he blinked. Confederacy was holding on with all he could to America’s body.

“John…” England sighed. “You are in English waters”

Confederacy groped blindly for England’s hand, but England stood beyond his reach. “Don’t hurt the sailors. They did what they thought was right. You’re neutral... don’t turn me over to him, please.” It was clear from his words, that Confederacy didn’t know what Alfred did. That they were the same person.

England hesitated. “Well... I...” He tapped the back of America's hand. “I won't, John.”

His hand turned and clutched at the tips of England’s fingers. His hands were cold, shockingly cold. “I’m fading... they hoped if I got away...” He coughed, body jerking beneath the blankets. “It hurts...”

England's chest tightened. It may be a conflicting thing, but it was still America. “You need to rest,” he said quietly.

Confederacy shook his head. “I... need to...” He struggled, pushing himself into a seated position. His face grew even paler as he tried to stand.

“Down!” England frowned grabbing America's shoulders and pushing him back to sitting. The large nation was too weak to even put up a fight. “What do you think you need?”

His eyes were unfocused, his body slumping forward to press his face against England’s shoulder. “I don’t want to fade here... take me to the air... please. If you... ever felt a trace of kindness for me... help me.”

England's heart clenched and before he could think on it the words left his mouth. “Don't you dare talk like that! Talk of leaving!” Nevertheless, England slung one of America's arms over his shoulders, wrapping an arm around America's waist.

It was slow progress, as America winced with each step. England’s mind couldn’t think of the two personalities separately in that moment. He could only see America in pain and thinking he was dying. The deck was quiet, everyone who had not been given immediate parole waiting in galleys or their own cabins. He helped America to the side of the vessel. Once there America’s knees failed him and he slumped, England slowly lowering him to the deck. “Thank you.”

Half of him was tempted to snap at America and tell him to get over it, the other half wanted to bundle him up as if it would protect the young blond from the world. He settled for the middle road. “Better?”

America nodded, lids sliding shut over those stormy eyes that had caused England so much grief. He was still for a moment, even the ragged breaths become fewer and farther between. Clenching his teeth, England willed himself to be silent. He knew exactly what was happening. He had known exactly what was going to happen the minute he had found out the odd thing that had happened with America's Civil War. There was no other outcome. But this was still America. This still hurt. A lot. Reaching over, England smoothed back damp hair from the boys forehead. “Just take a nap okay?”

A shudder went through the other’s body. “I’ll try...” England could feel the sun burning the back of his neck and the cool wind that came off the river cutting through his clothes. He didn’t move, watching the rise and fall of America’s chest as the breaths came slower and slower. The last breath seemed to take the longest, a sigh of air and then his chest didn’t rise again.

That was when the panic set in. Lurching forward, England grabbed America tightly by the shoulders. “John? Alfred?” He shook him. “Don't be a prat! Answer me!” He shifted, gathering the other up into his arms and shaking him as hard as he could. He wasn’t breathing and his body was so cold.

England almost didn’t hear the words over the frantic pounding of his heart. “Why are you shaking me? That hurts.” The voice was weak, soft, but undeniably America’s as he’d always known it.

England sighed in relief, dropping back to sit on his heels once more. “You prat!”

“Arthur? Where did you come from?” America tried to lift a hand to his face, but he could barely lift his arm. “Where’s the president? We were at the theater... and...” His brow furrowed.

“You're in England.”

“England? Why?” He tried to sit up, skin pale.

“Stop with the moving!” England snapped. He grabbed America’s shoulders and held him down. “It's complicated, but I think the war is finally over.”

“What day is it?” America slumped back against the deck, shivering slightly in the cold air. He looked up at England, his ocean blue eyes clear for the first time in so long.

“Thank the Goddess,” England breathed, touching America's cheek. “You are finally back.”

He stared up at him and then a smile lifted at the corners of America’s mouth. “He’s gone. I’m me... I’m whole.” The smile widened.

It was a contagious smile. One that England caught. “Yes. Yes.” A passing pang of mourning slipped through his chest, but it was by the time England was pressing a kiss to America's forehead, awash in emotion.

America’s eyes drifted shut, relief awash on his face. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. He tried reaching for England again.

“You haven't changed have you?” England chuckled, scooting closer so the other could use his lap as a cushion. It would make much more sense to go back down the stairs but England found that he was rather comfortable with their current position.

America’s hand found his. “I hope so. I don’t want to do this again.”

England snorted. “As someone who survived four of these... I hope you don't either.”

America chuckled, his voice still hoarse. “I should... probably go home, huh?”

“Probably.”

America smiled. Fingers gripping England’s he closed his eyes again. “Soon.” He sighed, his body relaxing into rest. England heaved a sigh of relief as America fell asleep. He had Alfred back, he was ecstatic about that but a small portion mourned the disappearance of John. He still had been America and there had been times that the Confederacy had been... well, him. England mulled over the question if he would ever see him again before motioning to a few of the men poking their heads out. “Oy. Do come give me a hand. Let's get him below deck so that I can get the boat out of hold.”

***

_November 15, 1865_

_London, England_

“It's not to be released for a few more weeks, Arthur. But, since you were so kind to read and give critique back on it, I feel that agreeing to give you an advanced copy is little to nothing in return.” England smiled at the author, gratefully accepting the book.

“ _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland._ It remains just as charming as the first time I read it, Charles.” England looked up and smiled across the afternoon tea spread at the man. Charles Ludwig Dodgson, though all who would come to read the charming, and rather nonsensical novel, would know its author to be Lewis Carroll. “At first I couldn’t fathom why you would write beneath a pen name but then I could see where the concern would come from.” Opening to a random page England found himself staring at the small illustration of the cheshire cat, with his whiley expression and toothy grin.

“Charming... and that's why you wanted an advanced copy?”

“Well... it’s not for me. At least, not this one. Its for an individual, whose birthday happens to be July fourth and since you so wittily created the story on such day I figured that it would suit. I have also known the boy since he was Alice’s age. I thought it all very fitting.” England turned through the pages carefully. “He’s been ill and I think this would cheer him up.”

“I suppose you will be presenting it to him then?” Carroll asked.

“Well, yes and no. I will be mailing it. He lives in America.”

“America... how odd. Although you diplomats almost know people as well as us Deacons,” he drawled and England rolled his eyes, sliding the book back into the small package it had been presented with. 

“Oh, I know him very well.” England smiled, patting the parcel fondly. “This will be a special gift. Despite being rather airheaded he will understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wah! This one gets me every time I reread it! It's not quite the end - we have a bit of an epilogue for you coming up soon!
> 
> If you've enjoyed the story, please leave a comment or a kudo (and better yet, share with your friends)! We're really loving your comments and they inspire us to work a little faster ;) (We'll keep writing regardless since we have way too much fun... xD )
> 
> One more chapter to go when England bumps into America in San Francisco, and they explore this new phase of their relationship.


	24. Epilogue: A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When England bumps into America on a stop in San Francisco, he gets invited to take a trip into the wilderness towards the Yosemite Park, set aside in 1864. In the quiet and the solitude, things comes to light. They don't want to look away.

_April 1866_

_San Francisco, California_

San Francisco was anything but quiet. England clasped his hat to his head as he stood amongst the bustle of the city. To think, he had merely stopped in California to send out a telegram, and happened to run into one of America’s government officials who recognized him, took pity, and informed him that America was, in fact, in San Francisco.

England didn’t have a tendency for good luck, but it seemed the scales shifted sometimes. Clutching his bags tightly, England glanced around the crowd. The Gold Rush had forced the city to grow quickly and unchecked, and alongside it, the culture and the crime. He was used to the crowds of the east coast. Out here on the west coast, he found himself surrounded by those who hailed from China, Japan, and Mexico as well as the African and European mix he’d grown used to in the east. It was a stark contrast to what he normally associated with America’s people.

They were mostly sailors on shore leave, the noise becoming deafening at times. He slipped into the jagged flow that moved from the anchorages all around the San Francisco Bay. He could catch a glimpse of Alcatraz island, slowly being stripped of its military fortifications when the fog banks cleared. England supposed that he would have to start with the government offices first in his search for America.

As long as he didn’t find Alfred in the red light district, which was now infamously known as the Barbary Coast, he figured everything would proceed smoothly.His concern regarding America since the end of the Duar War had been chipping away at him. He hadn’t seen him since that day when America had collapsed in his arms on the deck of the _CSS Shenandoah_ outside Liverpool. He shrugged deeper into his coat, it would be best to not attract attention and keep his bags free of pickpockets and outright thieves.

***

America paused in his packing to sit by the window and breathe in a little of the ocean air. His house was away from the main part of the city. He poked at the crack in the wall near his head. The earthquake a month ago had left most of the buildings in the city a little the worse for wear. However, it hadn’t stopped the coming and going of all the ships with goods and money. The railroad he’d been dreaming of that went from east to west would change this place, but for now it was a sailor’s haven. Gold would come in from the mountains and be changed into money.

There was something else though, a place he wanted to see for himself. They had told him the comforts would be slight with it being barely spring, but he didn’t mind the thought of traveling in the snow. The cabins would be warm with enough wood. He would have quiet, and that’s what he needed. The owner of the cabin he’d borrowed promised him that even when the Merced overflowed its banks the house would stay dry.

The door chime rang and he hurried downstairs, ready to tell the wagon he’d hired that he wasn’t quite ready. “It’ll be a little while... Arthur?” He stared at England, surprise filling every fiber of him. He didn’t expect to see him for a while. He stood in the door frame, awkwardness filling the space. “What are you doing here?”

“Obviously checking in on you,” England said, flatly. “I arrived a couple of hours ago. You were surprisingly easy to find.” He arched a brow “Are you going to invite me inside or leave me here on the porch?”

America stepped out of the way. “Come in... I just, well, I wasn’t expecting you.” When England walked past him, America wanted to reach out and touch his sleeve to see if he was real. He did, catching England by the arm. Breathing a sigh of relief that he wasn’t an illusion, he closed the front door behind them.

“What are you doing?” England had been in the process of putting down his bags when America grabbed him. He peered at the large hand on his arm as if he had never seen it before, then looked up at America for the answer to his question as the door shut.

He blushed, but didn’t let go. “I just wanted to make sure it was really you.”

“Really me? What kind of nonsense is that? Of course I am my own person. Now stop acting like woman with her husband just come home and let me settle my bags.”

“Well, if we were married I would do this first.” He pulled England close and pressed his mouth against England’s. He still smelled like the ocean.

***

The kiss had been completely unexpected. England stiffened, but returned the kiss for a brief moment before leaning back. He had almost been swept up in the moment. Firm lips against his own coupled with labor hardened arms against a young, strong body. That would get any man’s thoughts going. “You want to shag and I haven’t been through the door even five minutes yet? At least get me something to eat first. I just returned from Asia and I could use something different than rice.”

America laughed, stopping after a moment as though the sound surprised him. “You’re the one getting ahead of yourself. I... uh... was actually packing to leave. There’s still a few things left in the kitchens though.”

England bristled immediately at the comment, but stopped before snapping at the other. “Leave?”

“I was planning on going up into the mountains... there was a place I wanted to see.” He shuffled his feet for a moment. “Do you want to come with me?”

“The mountains.” England’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “Whatever for? And I haven’t exactly packed clothes for traipsing through the wilderness.”

“There’s a place. Congress passed a bill to protect it and President Lincoln told me he wanted this one. That when it was all over we deserved peaceful places.” He stepped away from him and went into the living room and coming back with a book. “See.” He handed him the book, opened to an illustration of a wide valley with tall stone walls.

“Well, the artist’s interpretation is certainly pretty... and I take it you’ve never been there?” he flipped through the pages slowly.

“I’ve been to the area around it, but no, I haven’t been inside.”

“Ah.” England paged through the guidebook. He hadn’t planned for this. He had planned to find America, force him to shauffer him around the city, drink, fuck a fair amount, and then head back home satiated. Not run through the wilderness. “How long?”

“Well, it takes some time to get there... I was planning to be back in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks huh...” England closed the book and looked up at him. “I'll need some things before we leave.”

America smiled. “I can make that happen.”

***

It took some quick work on America’s part, but by the afternoon America had managed to scrounge up some clothes that would fit England for the journey. They weren’t perfect matches, but he really didn’t need it. “We’ll be kind of on our own for the most part. No society up there this time of year.”

“Sounds perfect.” England shrugged, as he packed his bags with the new purchases. While he had no plans originally to leave the city, the thought of taking a break from it all for two weeks was tempting and he hadn’t been able to say no. America smiled at him and soon they were making their way to a small steam ship to take them up the San Joaquin river to pick up their horses in Stockton.

They would be leaving the next morning, the room in the inn ready and warm when they arrived. “Mister Jones, we weren’t expecting a second guest... the rooms are full for the night.”

America leaned closer to the inn owner and said in a stage whisper. “He’s a pinch penny anyway, he’d insist we share to save a few cents.” The owner appeared to accept this and America winked at him. Key in hand, America led the way upstairs.

“Do not insult me in such a public manner!” England snapped as they entered into the modest room. A fair sized bed sat against the far wall flanked by two nightstands, a small fireplace on their right.

“Oh c’mon. It worked as an excuse. Would you have wanted your own room if one had been available? It’s not odd to share when space and money are tight.”

“And you had to go and make a scene out of it,” he muttered placing his bag on the bed with a scowl.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you are a pinch penny,” America said, bringing his own small satchel. The rest would be packed onto a mule in the morning. He nudged England gently with his elbow. “It was pretty amusing to watch you try to tell the captain of the steamer how to do his job. I thought he was going to throw you overboard.”

“Well, he was doing it all wrong!” England threw his hands up in the air. “Kids these days don't know anything about true sailing! It's infuriating! I forced every member of my crew to walk the plank at least once so they knew what they had coming if they were daft!”

“Well, I don’t think you’d get away with that in modern times.” America gave him a teasing grin. The entire time they’d been on the boat America had been able to forget all of the darkness of the previous years. The war hadn’t touched the west in the same way as it had the east and he couldn’t help but be grateful for it.

“Because they don't know how hard it used to be. How rewarding it all was. They take things for granted... like every generation does.” He sighed, sitting on the bed. “It's nonsense.”

“Tell me how it was when you had to chisel things in stone, old man. I do, however, remember grinding walnuts to make ink in a pinch.” Dropping down onto the bed himself, America stretched out on his back. While he relished that the next several days would be on horseback, he couldn’t help but enjoy the comfort while he could.

“I'll tell you to sod off, you damn yank,” England growled.

America leaned up and wrapped his arms around England’s middle, and pulled him backwards so he was laying down with him. “Be careful or I might leave you in the woods,” he teased.

“You are going to threaten about leaving me in the woods, boy? I survived on my own in such terrain long before you were even thought of. If Spain survived wandering around up here I am certainly up to the task.”England scowled at him.“And what is your obsession with man handling!?”

“Hmmm, if you’d rather play survive the Sierra Nevada in early spring instead of being warm in the cabin with me I’ll be disappointed.” He took one of England’s hands threading their fingers together. “To think, you came all this way to see me only to force me to have to leave you in the mountains. Don’t worry Arthur, I’d come rescue you.”

“Rescue me!?” England sputtered. “ I am no damsel in distress! I am the fucking British Empire!I need no rescuing!” He shoved America towards the edge of the bed.

“Fine, I won’t rescue you unless it’s a last resort. Deal?” He kept a grip on England’s arm

“And I'm telling you I won't need it.” England hissed, planting his boot in America's belly as a warning. “Don't make me launch you off the bed, brat.”

“You do it and I’m taking you down with me.” He pulled England closer. “And Florence Nightingale would be appalled at you, I’m still a recovering soldier.”

“That is such rubbish,” England grouched, lowering his leg as the position was made uncomfortable.

“There’s been a lot of rubbish the last five years.” America frowned, the memories that he was determined to push away floating too close. He half expected to hear Confederacy’s voice whispering in the back of his mind. But no, it was just himself. He shifted so that he could see England better. “I know I wasn’t very grateful at the time... but I’m glad you were there, even if it was only Arthur who could be there with me.”

England tensed. Clearing his throat he looked up,as if he suddenly found the ceiling particularly interesting. “Ah... yes...”

America was quiet for a moment, then rolled over on top of England and pushed him into the blankets. “Don’t look like that... just forget I said anything.” He nuzzled England’s neck. “Maybe we’ll decide to just stay in the wilderness.”

***

England tried to ignore the way his breath hitched. “You know that's not an option, Alfred.”

“I know, but I need to forget who I am for just a little while.”

“That I understand.” England murmured, pressing his cheek into the top cover with a sigh. England allowed his eyes to slide shut for a moment of silence. Victoria was going to kill him for running off for weeks... he would deal with her when he returned to London.

America kissed him below the ear. His stomach growled, but he was clearly enjoying England’s warmth.

England heaved a sigh. “I take it it's supper time.”

“I could say we are retiring and get dinner sent up, then we don’t have to worry about appearances.”

“That sounds nice,” England admitted.

“I’ll be back,” America said, climbing off the bed and walking to the door. He threw England a glance over his shoulder and disappeared into the hallway pulling the door shut behind him.

As the door closed England stared up at the ceiling with a sigh. Running his hands through his hair, his mind whirled around everything happening. This really was irresponsible. But he had already committed, so he might as well get comfortable. Sitting up he shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his vest, moving to drop them over one of the chairs at the table by the fireplace.Unbuttoning the first few buttons at the top of his collared shirt he heaved a sigh of relief before moving to his boots. “This is reckless,” he murmured.

***

America took his time downstairs. It had been an impulsive decision to invite England to accompany him. He didn’t regret it. It was only... the war was over, he was whole, but he wasn’t sure how to go forward. It was easy enough to gather the meal from the cook and make only a few engagements with the people in the dining room. He carried the food up on a tray. “It smells good,” he said, walking into the room and settling it onto the small table.

“Thank you.” England looked up from his boots, placing them to the side of his chair. England squinted at him, frowning. He could tell that something was bothering him. “Did something happen downstairs?”

America dropped down in his seat. “Just thinking, I do that sometimes.” He gave England a half smile and pulled the lids off the food. The smell of warm bread and beef stew filled the room.

England's eyes narrowed and he watched him carefully, not bothering to touch his food yet. “Anything in particular?”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now. Let’s just enjoy dinner.” Reaching down, America unlaced his boots and kicked them off besides England’s by the fire.

England watched him quietly for a moment before looking at his stew in annoyance. Grabbing at roll he tore it into pieces and dipped it the broth, chewing and swallowing them methodically. Silence fell over the room and England leaned back as he finished the roll. “Do you want the rest?”

“Not if you’re still hungry,” America said, scraping his spoon across the bottom of his bowl.

“Well, I'm not. Although, I may go back downstairs to see if there is anything sweet.” He stood up, gathering back up his jacket to be presentable enough to go back downstairs. He made some utterance of being right back as America watched the fire in the grate. With England gone it was quiet in the inn, only a few chords of someone playing the piano making its way onto the second floor rooms. He was worried about this. Too much quiet. With everyone it was too much noise and now... He got up and started pacing.

America turned around when England came back, hands loaded with large dishes. “Did you take all the dessert in the place?” Regardless he came closer to relieve England of some of the food. He’d brought up a generous slice of pie and a piece of cake.

“Oh shut it.” England muttered, coloring.

“I’m not complaining.” America picked up a fork and started in on the pie. He smiled at England.

“Could have fooled me.” England sniffed, stabbing his oversized piece of cake with a fork.

America watched him. “It feels like ages since we just sat like this.”

“Yes... it does.” England replied, thoughtfully, before lifting a large piece of cake into his mouth with relish.

An easy silence fell over the room as the pair enjoyed their sweets and England partook of his spirits. England glanced up at him a few times. America knew he was staring at him, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t believe that England was here. When America's gaze didn't falter England heaved a loud suffering sigh. “Before you even ask I am not sharing my cake with you.”

“No, it’s just...” America leaned forward and swiped his thumb over the corner of England’s mouth. “You had some chocolate right there.”

England stared at him, eyes darkening ever so slightly. “Ah…”

“There... all better.” A flush spread across America’s face as he met England’s eye, his fingers brushing along England’s jaw.

Turning his head, England focused on his dessert once more. “We are leaving early?”

“If we want to cover the most ground.” America settled his pie plate on the stack of dishes and stood up from his seat, stretching. He walked over to the bed and began moving the satchels to the small dressing table.

“All right.” England rolled his drink around before drowning it. Once again removing his boots, he grabbed his bag before shrugging out of his shirt. “How far are we going tomorrow?”

“As far as we can, here I’ll show you.” He pulled out a map from his bag and rolled it out on the mattress. “We’re here now, about as far as the steamers can take us upriver and then we’re going up here in the mountains.” His finger glided along the route. “I’m hoping we can make camp somewhere in this area.”

“That makes sense.” England nodded peering around him.

America placed his hand in the small of England’s back, his fingers light on his skin. “I guess we should get some sleep...”

“That's the plan.” England nodded before looking up at him with a smirk. “You have you let me get to my bag, Alfred.”

“Well, there’s a toll for that. I’m afraid you’re going to need to kiss me to get me out of the way.” He gave him a teasing grin.

England crossed his arms. “Really now? And if I just stand here are you going to charge me interest?”

America leaned closer to him, smile widening. “Absolutely. It might get expensive if you wait too long.”

“How long and how expensive? I am guessing you are gonna charge an outrageous rate,” he drawled.

“Only because you’re British.” He hooked his fingers in the hem of England’s trousers and tugged him closer. “The clock is ticking.”

“You bloody American, that is completely biased.” He sighed. Reaching up he dragged his fingers through America's hair, tightening against the scalp as he jerked him down, crushing his mouth against the taller blond’s.

Heart leaping in triumph, America wrapped his arms around England’s waist and held him tightly. He met the kiss eagerly, he could still taste the sugar from England’s cake. America kissed him impatiently and hard. Yanking hard on his hair, England switched their positions, knocking America onto the bed. Staring down at the other, he placed his hands on his hips scowling. “Who’s getting ahead of himself now?”

America leaned up on his elbows. “I was just joking with you back in San Francisco,” he said, “I got you something to eat first, didn’t I?”

“You know that makes it sound like you think you can buy me with food.” England rolled his eyes. Kneeling onto the bed, knees on either side of America's hips, he stared down at him.

Settling his hands on England’s waist, America looked up at him, his glasses slightly askew. “Not so much buy... bribe maybe.”

“You’re going to bribe me for sex…” He snorted.

America laughed. “Well, did it work?”

“No.” England frowned and watched as America's face fell. “But I'm going to fuck you anyways.” He grinned.

America’s grin matched his. “Deal.”

“No deal. I made the decision,” England corrected before swooping down and forcing the man into another kiss.

America was going to protest the point, but lost his train of thought when England took fierce control of the kiss. He hooked his hands around the back of England’s thighs, hitching him closer. He heard England mutter a curse against his lips regarding the new angle, but growing quiet again as America ran his hands up his sides. Tangling the fingers of one hand in England’s hair and letting the other travel back down his spine, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his trousers. He wanted to discover him. A thrill shot through his body as he realized they had time. No angry mobs or well meaning servants. No war hanging over America’s head. When England broke the kiss and began to lean upwards, America followed, pressing his mouth to England’s collar bone.

England was rougher with him than he'd been the last time, as though he were feeling just as impatient. Their skin was slicked with sweat, bodies wrapped around each other. England's body moved against his with pleasurable force, England's fingers and tongue and body drawing sensation through America that he didn't think were possible. England thrust into him again and again until they were both spent. England's forehead drooped onto America's shoulder.

America gathered England close, brushing his lips against his even though he didn’t feel as though there was any more closeness that he could bear. There was a look in England’s face that America hadn’t seen before. A secret that he didn’t quite understand. He smoothed England’s hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss to his brow. He had hoped to spend more time with England, exploring, learning. Yet their lust had distracted the both of them and they had been lost in a sea of pleasure before he could even consider what his steps were going to be.

A chuckle rumbled through England against America’s shoulder.

“What’s so funny?” America asked.

“We have to ride horses all day tomorrow.” He snorted in amusement.

America colored. “I... well, there’s nothing for it now.”

England rolled onto his back laughing to himself . “Oh dear…” he chuckled throwing his arms over his eyes.

“Well, I expect you to make it up to me,” he said, climbing off the bed to gather up a clean cloth at the wash basin.

England rolled onto his side, basking in the languid satisfaction that always came after. “And how do you propose I do that?”

“I’ll think about it during the ride.” Rinsing the cloth, he brought it back to England. He climbed back into the bed and stretched. “I have a few ideas.”

***

“Hm,” England commented lightly as as he stretched his calves and grabbed the blankets.He was freezing, but America was like a portable furnace. Reaching over he pulled the man into another kiss, muffling his sound of surprise.

America pressed back into the kiss, making the kiss hot and slow with none of its usual haste.. His arms were tight around England’s middle as though he were clinging to him like a man certain he was going to fall off a precipice.

Running his hands through America's hair gave him the time to think, but to his dismay England's thoughts slipped away from him like water down a drain. He didn't like this. Slipping one hand from America's hair he dragged his fingertips down the blond’s spine as he deepened the kiss, curious to see if the other would relent.

America’s arm tightened around England’s waist, opening his mouth to England’s kiss. It still felt so new, so raw, like he couldn’t get enough. _‘Younger countries have the best stamina... the day when he is comfortable enough... that strength’_ England's thoughts slurred once again as the American nation shoved him into the mattress once more.

_***_

As they left the last vestiges of the town behind them for the stage road, America felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He could breathe once again. Keeping his horse in a gentle walk, he took in the fields and the manzanitas that grew on the hillsides. Patches here and there of the live oaks gave a splash of green amongst all of the yellows and browns of the still sleeping foothills. Every so often, the splash of a spring wildflower poked up between the trees or in patches of dry grasses. The mule’s lead tied to his saddle horn he let the horse choose its own path closer to the mountains.

“So, how are you feeling this morning?” England asked, leaning on his saddle horn he stared at the back of America's head as their horses ambled.

Looking over his shoulder, America grinned at him. He was a little sore from the night before, but only one word came to his mind. “Free.”

***

England leaned back in his saddle, watching him silently. “Good an answer as any,” he said quietly and turned his own attentions to the country. They weren't alone. Turning to look just ahead on their left he caught the sight of two yellow eyes. _Ah, a satyr._ Green skin and long fingers made themselves known as the male fae leaned against the tree to watch them. It hadn't taken long for them to catch the interest of some of America's fae. “ _mae'ch goedwig yn brydferth, diolch am i ni fynd heibio i ni. Diolch yn fawr i'ch llys_ ,” he said quietly, knowing inhuman ears would hear it for miles.

“What are you muttering back there?” America said, tugging up the mule’s head as it leaned down to chew at some grass.

“Something that should concern you, but doesn't so never you mind.”

America shrugged and began humming, watching some of the birds that darted amongst the branches of the trees overhead.

England sighed quietly, as America became immersed in his surroundings. He wasn't used to America when he wasn't babbling about something or another. It was different. Draping the reins over the saddle horn he took to the task of putting in several smaller braids in the brown mane of his gelding.

They rode for a few hours, the sun rising higher into the sky. America moved his horse off the road, pulling the mule behind him down into the riverbed. “Let’s take a break,” he said, calling to England over his shoulder.

“Of course.” Gripping the saddle England dropped off the horse and brought it's reins over its head and guided it to the water. As his horse bent down to drink he crouched down beside him to rinse his hands. “It's hotter than I thought it was going to be.”

“The wind is hot this time of year. If we were further south it would feel like summer. Not really sure why yet,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. “It’ll be cooler when we get higher up.” He dropped down onto the sand exposed on the side of the river, laying on his stomach and resting his head on his arms.

“Alfred are you feeling ill?” He frowned, getting up.

“A little tired... there was better things to do than sleep last night.” He turned his face away from England. “And it’s nice to listen to the land. The last time I was laying in the dirt...” He didn’t have to finish the sentence for England to understand. There had been enough dwelling on the tragedy and it would surely pop up time and again unexpectedly. Tragedy was wont to do such a thing.

“I can't exactly say you'll get over it.” England sat cross legged on the bank. “But it will get easier with time.”

“How much time?” America asked.

“There's no way to gauge that.” England shrugged. “It's like any wound. It all depends.”

America made a noncommittal sound. “Could you wake me up in about an hour? I want to make a few more miles before making camp, but I also don’t want to fall out of the saddle.”

“Yes, of course.” England nodded.

America pulled his hat down over his eyes and shifted a little in the dirt. He fell asleep easily, his breathing quiet amongst the sound of the river and the rustling of the leaves in the wind. England watched him for a brief moment before getting to his feet. They were far enough out that America would not be disturbed in his nap. Leaning down, he undid his boots and removed his socks, patted his horses neck one more time and left the small clearing of trees they had settled in. The trees in this forest were massive, and plenty, although if the tales were to be true there were even larger ones they would find on their journey.Yet, it was not dense like some of the rainforests he had traveled, so the sunlight met the ground in estranged shapes dictated by the leaves and branches far above England’s head.

Toes digging into the loose topsoil England made his way further from the sight. The rustling around him was one of fae folk, not animals. It made sense, the others always highly interested in another one of nations entering their space. North America, the land was beautiful, spacious and highly versatile. You could run into nearly every ecosystem in this country traveling one sea to another. Running his hands along the bark of the large trees England hummed to himself, small creatures, one might mistake for fireflies touched his sleeves, knuckles or perched on his shoulders. America had his own faeries, though he refused their existence. But it hadn’t been only humans on the Mayflower and her sisters.

***

The days to get up into the Yosemite Park was filled with adventure. The second day, America filled by telling stories about the antics in the gold rush towns and about some of the other places he would take England to if there was time. A game began on the third day, pretending to be humans and making up stories about their lives. It was on the fourth day, that America rode ahead to make sure of the route. They’d climbed higher up into the mountains, the forest thicker with shrubs with branches still bare from winter and evergreens reaching up into the sky.

America came back with a big grin on his face. “Remember those trees I told you about years ago? You’re gonna see some just ahead.” Tossing a small cone towards England, reminiscent of the one he’d given him at the Crystal Palace nearly two decades ago. “C’mon, it’s just as amazing as I remember!”

Rolling the cone between his fingers after he caught it England tucked it into his saddle bag and spurred his gelding, who he had now fondly named Skips, as he liked to kick rocks as they walked. “I thought you said you hadn’t been here!”

“There’s more than one place where these trees grow! These ones aren’t quite as big as the ones I’ve seen further south... but still really big!” he called from further up the trail. When England rode up, America was standing at the base of a tree that had to be at least twenty feet in diameter. He was craning his neck up towards the top. He turned around and leaned against the trunk. “What do you think?”

England watched him for a moment, America was so proud of his large trees. They were marvelous, certainly breathtaking. But it paled in comparison next to America’s pride and excitement at being in such a place. There was no point in trying to hide the smile that came over his own face in response. His cheeks pink in delight and green eyes bright in turn. “I think it’s magnificent.”

America’s grin widened. “I’ve been trying to figure out what I can compare them to.” He walked back over and gathered up the reins of his horse. “Let’s walk for a while.”

“As you wish.” England nodded, clicking his tongue to guide his horse forward. The sky had turned a little, frost coming into the air. A few flurries drifting down, melting immediately as they landed on their hats and on the ground.

“We should get to the place tomorrow. I’m borrowing a cabin from some folks who spend the winter in Fresno. I was told the road gets a little hairy going down into the valley.” England rode up beside him and America tapped him on the leg. “I’m sure we can handle it.”

“I’ve ridden through harsh weather long before you existed. I am certain it will be fine,” England drawled.

“I don’t think the snow will stick. Although, I hope it waits for us to get into an actual building. I hate being cold.” He watched the forest around them, admiring the big trees and the small animals that darted around.

“It would be nice if the snow would stick,” England countered.

“You make it sound like you want to get snowed in.”

“Not particularly.” he shrugged “But there is something nice about a snowy night in front of a fire in a cabin surrounded by solitude.”

“That’s true.” America smiled at him. He climbed back into the saddle. “Here’s to hoping it waits until tomorrow night when we’re actually at the cabin.”

***

“Well you set up that tent in record time,” England commented as America finished tying the straps. The American had insisted he set up the tent and that England tend to the fire. Then the blue eyed man had stared in disbelief as the fire was made in seconds and remained lit with no signs of faltering. America had stared at him only to shake his head, muttering something regarding freak incidents and focused on the tent. Even though America had always been disbelieving of the arcane, sometimes it still irked him that something that was so important to him America would never acknowledge.

America came over to the fire and stretched his hands over it. “It’s probably going to be cold tonight. I want the tent ready. Why do you look like that?” He raised an eyebrow at him.

“Excuse me?” England scowled “This is my face.”

“You just looked like you were angry at the fire or something.”

“I am not... it’s nothing.”

America watched him for a moment, settling down against his saddle. The horses were tied on their picket and were chewing on some of the grasses. “Are you sure?”

“I wasn’t, but I am becoming now,” England said shortly.

America leaned back. “Come sit with me.” When England didn’t move immediately. “I’m cold, come keep me warm.”

“Why do I have to be the one to move?” England sighed. It was indeed getting chilly. Getting to his feet, he glared at the other but moved to sit beside him nonetheless. “You should have brought more layers if you were cold.”

“I could be buried under a mountain of blankets and still get cold. I don’t know why... Matt is immune to everything,” America said, wrapping an arm around England’s shoulders so he could pull him closer.

“With the manhandling,” England grumbled under his breath, tensing. This was odd. Sitting in such a manner. England swallowed uncomfortably. It was nice, though he'd never admit it outloud, but it was still odd.

America was quiet for a moment, a little fidgety by England’s side. “That’s better,” he said, adjusting his arm behind England’s back. “I... uh... this is fine right? I mean, we’re alone, so it’s not like we’d scandalize the humans or anything.”

“It...” ... _will probably lead to sex_. Young men. “Fine for now.”

“Did I ever tell you the story about the biggest grizzly I ever saw?” Before waiting for England’s answer, America launched into the story.

“And you expect me to believe that is all true?” England sniffed after America had finished.

“Well, have you ever seen a grizzly that big?” America asked, smiling a little at his own tall tale. “You weren’t sure you believed me about the big trees either and now you’ve seen them yourself.” He yawned.

“You've always exaggerated, so of course I would be suspicious,” England defended himself.“Time to turn in is it?”

“Just giving the story some color.” America yawned again. “It’ll be warmer in the tent. I’ll check the horses and put the fire out.” He stretched, cool air seeping in between them from where they’d been pressed together. He moved towards the line where the horses and the mule were quietly dozing themselves.

England watched him for a moment before getting up and making his way into the tent. Pulling off his boots and shucking his outer garments England took note of how small the tent truly was “Well, there will be no want of body heat, but much for personal space,” he observed, unrolling his sleeping roll and burrowing inside.

***

America took his time putting out the fire, reminding himself that the tent itself wasn’t at fault for the bad memories. There had just been too many for too long. He realized with a start that this would be the first time since the French and Indian War that England would have shared one with him. However, that was a mixed feeling in and of itself. Was that only a hundred years ago? He could remember the jittery feeling he’d gotten any time England was close. That feeling had a name now and an understanding behind it. Sometimes, though, it still felt so raw. It was like the betrayal that he’d felt back then was still grating under his skin. That they could wound each other little by little until one of them would break. America rubbed at his arm, did England feel that way too? He listened to the embers hiss as he poured water over them. He shivered as the embers turned to gray ash. If there was one thing he’d learned it was that he had to face the next day. Back then, and now.

Going into the tent he pulled off his shoes and stepped over England to get to his own bed roll and climbed inside. The blankets were still cool, so he pulled them up over his head, hoping to warm up quickly.

“Good night, Alfred.” England's voice came muffled from his own fabric cocoon.

America rolled over, so that he could settle next to England’s side. “Good night, Arthur.” More words were on the tip of his tongue, but the forest seemed ready to swallow them up and not carry them to England’s ears. Instead, he settled his body near England’s and waited for sleep to take him hoping that any dreams were pleasant ones.

***

It was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him that pulled England from his sleep. Bleary eyed and only half awake he stared at the side of the tent. Orange light and droplets from condensation rolling down the outside. Sunrise. “Far too early,” he croaked, “Back to sleep, Alfred.”

“We can sleep in tomorrow. Don’t you want to see it?” He pulled back the blankets stuffed around England’s neck so that he could kiss him beneath his ear.

England shook his head with a grumble of complaints. “I'll see it later when it's not so blasted early.”

“Come on... I’ll make it up to you when we get to the cabin.” America stifled a yawn, but was still crawling out of his blankets and beginning to roll everything up.

“Absolutely not,” he muttered.

“Seize the day, Arthur.” America leaned over him, pressing another kiss to his temple. 

“I choose which day to seize.” He grouched glaring up at him. “If... if I let you in my bed roll will you let me sleep?” It was freezing.

“No,” he replied, “But for entirely different reasons...”

“In.” _Oh you'll let me sleep,_ England lifted his arm to make a gap. “Hurry, it's cold,” he snapped.

“I... I’ll be back later,” America said, hurrying out of the tent, leaving England blinking in confusion.

***

England didn’t understand and America knew he should have just said something. Waking up, he’d forgotten where he was for a brief moment, almost expecting to smell the gunpowder and hear the sound of an army camp making a meal. Then he’d seen England and remembered, but didn’t want either of them to be there anymore.

America walked off, putting some distance between them. The frustration wasn’t fair and he knew it, but it still clung to him. Getting far enough away into the frosty woods, he stepped behind a tree and sat down, leaning his back up against the spongy bark. He picked up a downed twig and started stripping the bark off of it. England was a heavier sleeper than he’d previously realized. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d woken up last night with the feeling that bugle call was going to sound any moment and having to count the breaths he took until his heart slowed. He’d thought about waking him, but that had felt weak, foolish. England had already seen hints of the worst and he didn’t want him to look at him like that ever again.

“Maybe I should have just told you I’d see you when I got back...” he muttered to the forest. It had been his intention after all, hopefully get some semblance of normalcy back before reentering the world. Before having to face them all again. Before he even really had to face himself again. President Johnson was already causing trouble with some of the cabinet members in Washington. Everything felt too fragile and he wasn’t sure what would test the mends he’d made. In a few minutes he’d go back, he decided.

***

Tying up his sleeping roll and buttoning his coat England shoved out of the tent and made angry gesture at the campfire, which in turn lit violently, startling the horses. “Dammit,” he muttered as he packed his saddle bags and soothed the horses. He didn't see America anywhere in the campsite and assumed that the boy had wandered off into the woods in his own anger. Cursing once more, England threw the items for breakfast into the cooking pot and began to make quick work of the tent.

The pot was smoking when America slowly made his way back to the campsite. He sat down near England stretching out his hands to warm by the fire. “What are you making?”

“Oatmeal,” he said, shortly.

America smiled. “When will it be done?”

“Now... I think.”

“Well, let’s see.” He picked up one of the camp plates and grabbed a spoon. Ladling some of the gray mush onto it, he tried it. England was shocked when America ate the entire thing without a single jab.

“At least somebody knows real food,” England muttered, scraping up his own portion.

America watched him. “I... I shouldn’t have stormed out. I was a little on edge, it wasn’t about you if that makes any sense... Thanks for breaking camp.”

England lifted a shoulder to acknowledge America's apology. He wasn't ready to accept it just yet.

America ate a second helping and got up to get the horses ready. Taking the dishes to the river England scrubbed the dishes furiously in the icy water until he could no longer feel his fingers.He was pissed, pissed at America’s attitude, pissed at the way the other was treating him like that, pissed at this whole situation. He had been hoping to spend a few brief days in San Francisco and then return to England with Victoria and Parliament none the wiser. Now he was going to have his neck wrung over a shitty trip. They’d been so lost in the emotion of America’s civil war that he didn’t even know where they stood anymore. _I shouldn’t have come!_ He lost track of time, no clue how long he had been crouched over the water until large hands cupped his owns, halting his actions. He blinked slowly staring at his red hands in surprise.

“Arthur?” America said.

England looked back at America “...yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Washing the dishes, of course,” he frowned. America caught sight of England’s hands.

“And apparently chilling yourself to the bone. Come here.” He took England’s hands in between his own and rubbed them gently, trying to bring warmth back into them.

“I have it,” England protested, but left his hands in America’s and watched him instead. There was that feeling in his chest again. A softness. He needed it to go away.

America continued to rub and massage feeling back into England’s fingers. “All better?”

“I suppose.” He frowned. Before his hands had been painfully numb and now they were just painful. “Are we ready to head out?”

“Yep, we should be getting into the valley by the afternoon.” America reluctantly released England’s hands.

“Well, let's be on our way.”

***

The trail down into the valley was as treacherous as America had warned. It appeared that a recent rockslide had taken out part of the road, so they had to lead the horses over a narrow ledge of earth. The fall, luckily, wasn’t sheer, but it would have caused a major inconvenience if anyone had slipped. The horses were sure footed enough and followed where they were led. England breathed a sigh of relief when they both reached the other side. It would be a little troublesome going back out, but there were some other routes back to civilization.

The edges of the Yosemite valley began to rise up in the distance, tall granite walls and light glinting off a waterfall. They came closer and closer, the towering granite cliff face of El Capitan casting a shadow over them in the afternoon light. “It’s even bigger than I imagined! No wonder Thomas Ayres was worried about his drawings... it’s bigger than anything I’ve ever seen!”

England was silent with amazement, but also a sense of loss. This was America, a nation he had come to know but also a nation he had lost. This would have been one of the greatest additions to his empire yet. Yet, he had been unable to keep it. It was amazing and while it looked nothing like his homeland he felt a pang of homesickness.

They moved deeper into the valley, more granite cliff sides towering above the open meadows. Pines and oak trees cast shade from the edges, the river running down the middle. Waterfalls tumbled from several of the hillsides. It was difficult to look down and away from the sheer grandeur of the landscape. “Oh, that must be the place,” America said, riding forward. The little cabin was nestled on the edge of one of the meadows, the river a few hundred feet away. There was a note pinned to the door and America opened it up to read.

“What does it say? “

“It’s from Mr. Hutchings. He says to enjoy the cabin and to tell other people about the hotel he’s building. He’s kind of ruthless as a businessman. We have the place to ourselves though.” America reached for the simple latch on the door, and the wood creaked as it opened. “It’s not luxurious or anything, but it’ll do.” The cabin was one room, a stone fireplace at one end with a wooden table settled against one of the windows with a few chairs. Dresser drawers were pressed against the wall opposite the fireplace. A bed stuck out into the center of the room on a rug that had certainly seen a few animals stealing its fibers. “What do you think?”

“It's quaint and exactly what we need. How long shall we be staying?”

“I was planning on two weeks. I wanted some quiet... after that, the valley will start getting busy again.”

“Sounds well enough. Shall I get a fire started while you use your inhuman strength to carry in the bags?” He headed for the small pile of wood in the corner without waiting for a response.

“Sure.” He brought in the supplies off the mule and unsaddled the horses, turning them into the small paddock that was behind the cabin. England was worked at the fireplace while America started putting the other things away. “Making supper already?”

“Just water. I want tea.” He gestured to the pot as he stepped back. There was a small cupboard near the fireplace, opening up the doors America looked inside. There were a few simple dishes and a few other comforts. “Looks like we even have a teapot,” America settled it onto the table and dropped down into the chair.

***

“Do I need to make supper? It looks as if you are ready to turn in.” England crossed his arms, watching America. America had been snappy that morning and then sluggish the rest of the day. It was mildly irritating, coupled with the embarrassment that had saturated the back of England’s mind all day. He had more than welcomed the American into his bed that morning and had been given a more than lackluster response. That would upset anyone. Standing in front of the fire, he began to warm quickly and as a result shed his jacket and vest.

America looked at him, England pointedly still looking away. He got up and walked over to him, leaning his head on his shoulder and taking him into a hug from behind. “No, because I have a promise to keep.”

England tensed as he was embraced, ears turning red “What are you doing? What promise?” He grabbed America’s hands to pull away only to have the embrace tightened.

“I promised I would make it up to you for waking you up early remember?”

England frowned. “Yes, I remember much from this morning. Thank you.”

“What’s that mean? I was going to give you more time...” America’s mouth turned down, holding England close. “You changed your mind.”

“I did no such thing!” England snapped, twisting around hard to glare at him “I offered you my bedroll and you fucking sighed at me!”

America’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t sighing at you and... getting in your bed... I just didn’t want to be in the tent anymore.”

England bristled, anger sparking in his eyes. “Oh, was staying in the tent with me any longer that disgusting to you!? Unhand me!”

“No!” America released England to turn him around so he could face him. “I told you. It had nothing to do with you... it was... it’s about the war... it’s still close in my memory. I wanted you... but here, so I didn’t have to think about battlefields.”

England stared at him, his anger evaporating only to be replaced with guilt. “Then why didn’t you just say so!?”

“Because I’m tired of feeling that way!” America released him, stepping away from him and going to the window. “I want it behind me.”

“I told you that it takes time!” England sighed. “And what does that have anything to do with telling me?!”

“I don’t want you to picture what I became whenever you think of me... I thought... after I came back to myself at the end of the war... Darn it all!” He turned around to face him. “I didn’t want you to think I’m still weak. I’m not. It just catches me off guard sometimes.”

A pitying expression came over England’s face. “I don’t ever recall calling you weak, not when you left me in the mud, not when you refused to come to my aid at sea, not in London where you nearly…” He shook his head “And I certainly never said anything of the sort after the war, Alfred. Those fears are constructions of your own.”

“That’s why I told you it wasn’t about you. I didn’t mean to make you doubt the way I feel about you this morning.” He stepped forward, reaching out a hand towards England.

England tensed. There was that word again. Feel. He was not particularly fond of it in this context. “You…” he shook his head, taking a step towards the fire. “I’ll start supper.”

“Arthur...” America watched him for a moment. “I guess I’ll go chop some firewood in case that snow comes down tonight.” The creaking of the door told of his departure.

The tension in England’s shoulders relaxed as he was left alone in the small cabin. Grabbing the cloth wrapped root vegetables left over from the other night coupled with several small slabs of salted pork he dropped them into the boiling water, scooting it over to make room the kettle. Staring into the pot he watched as the contents bounced around in the bubbling water. He didn’t know exactly what to think. America’s confessions of uncertainty had come from nowhere and now were like a large weight on both of their shoulders.England rubbed at his eyes, any appetite he had had was gone. But he would still take a cup of tea to settle his nerves. Swallowing, England began the methodical process of breaking apart the compressed tea slabs into small enough pieces for a single, strong pot. Leaving the tea to sit England walked over to the bed, laying across it, socked feet dangling just a couple feet above the wood floor. There was nothing that he could do for America. This was simply apart of growing up, and the aftermath of war.Closing his eyes he focused on his breathing, using its count to know when the tea was ready.

***

America was grateful for the methodical chore of chopping the logs on the side of the cabin into something that would be easy to stock the fire with. After he’d split plenty, he began stocking them up onto the porch. He hadn’t meant to air the problem that he’s been running away from. If anyone would understand though, it was England. He had seen him, John, the blood on the battlefields. Had held him in the darkness. When he got the last pieces up under the eave, he finally realized how cold he was. The sweat from his work was quickly cooling on his skin and making him shiver. He hesitated though, unsure what he would say once he went inside. Eventually, the cold won out, chasing him indoors.

“I thought I was going to have to come look for you.” England said, stirring the pot, which was smoking lightly. He looked back at America, nose wrinkling slightly. “How you managed to get covered in dirt while chopping wood is beyond me. Wash up. Tea and supper are ready. Then you can turn in.” America made to make some comment, but thought better of it when he saw the expression on England’s face. Pulling two bowls, spoons and cups from the cabinet while America freshened up. England set up their modest dishware and began dishing out supper. He ladeled one scoop into his own bowl and as many as was possible into the other. By the time he had rehung the pot America was dropping himself into the seat, grabbing the spoon.

America settled into his dinner, older memories replacing the ones that had been tormenting him all day. The way England would come and cook for him, tidy up his house and they would settle in to study or read. When England would fall asleep with his book still in his hand and America would lean on him, or rest his head in his lap. He didn’t know what to do with the emotion that welled in his chest. “Thank you,” he said, working on his food.

“You’re welcome” England made his cup and also turned his attention to his food, silence falling over the small cabin.

America turned over some topics of conversation. He didn’t really want to talk business, even if it was the first thing that came to mind. The business with Japan’s lords that England had just returned from had started with the choices made by one of his own navy, and he’d read plenty about about it in the official reports. Then there was their history, but that seemed rife with mines. “What do you want to do tomorrow?” That question felt safe.

“Going for a walk sounds doable.”

“That sounds nice. We could go see the waterfall.”

“Yes. Sounds lovely.” England poured himself another cup.

This wasn’t going at all how he’d hoped it would when they were back in San Francisco when he’d asked England to come with him at the spur of the moment. He slid his foot beneath the table, bumping his leg against England’s. There were things he wanted to say, but it all seemed to get caught in his throat.

England gave him a look over the rim of his cup. “Really? How old are you?”

“Depends on when you start counting,” America replied. England gave him a haughty look and pulled his leg away. “I’ll get some more water.” He got up from the table and shrugged into his coat. He grabbed the buckets and stepped out into the twilight. Snow was starting to drift and landed on his damp hair. He didn’t tarry this time. Glad that there wouldn’t be much reason to go out again. The animals were secure in their paddock and now he just needed to find a way to get England out of bad temper.

Settling the buckets near the table, America shucked off his coat onto the hook and brushed the snow out of his hair. He could tell England was watching him. Moving to England’s side of the table, he stood behind his chair, resting his fingers on the back of it.

England’s shoulders tensed. “Yes?”

Leaning over, America pressed a soft kiss to the top of England’s head. The other was stock still. “I’m cold. Come to bed with me.”

“You looked tired... shouldn't you be sleeping?”

“I want you to sleep with me.”

England turned in his chair “You know that can mean two very different things.”

“Yes.” America met his eyes. “You can’t exactly call me innocent anymore.”

“I would like to finish my tea first.” England turned back around, reaching for the pot.

America stared down at the top of his head and turned away from him. Walking over to the bed he sat down on the edge of it and pulled off his shoes and socks. He undressed down to his underclothes and pulled back the blankets. They smelled a little dusty on top of the cover, but still smelled fresh on the inside. Laying on his stomach, he pressed his face into the pillow.

“Oh, don’t pout. It won’t take me long,” England chided.

“Just getting comfortable.” _And I’m used to waiting for you, I waited a long time._ “Warming up the blankets.”

With a sigh England put his cup down and made for the bed. Undoing the buttons of his collar he knelt on the mattress, leaning over the other. “We certainly can do it in that position but raising your hips would work much better. In fact, how about we try that tonight?”

America turned his head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Before that... why don’t you come closer and kiss me first.” He shifted to catch the front of England’s shirt with his fingers and pulled him down.

Catching himself with his hands on either side of America's head he kissed the boy back,nipping at his lip to show his annoyance at being yanked.

America didn’t relent. England liked being in control when it came to this and so far he’d been happy to let him. He hadn’t meant to make England doubt him that morning, or how much he wanted him. He took the opportunity to take control of the kiss, feeling the hum of England’s pleasure as much as hearing it.

“Off,” he barked, yanking at America's shirt.

America lifted his arms, England practically shoving the garment off him. The blankets got tangled between them. Leaning forward England gave America no time to think, teeth sinking into flesh of his shoulder and his right hand making quick work of the buttons on his trousers. America gasped in surprise as England’s hands reached down the front of his trousers. With urging and caresses, he nudged America into his arms, the buttons of his shirt pressing into America’s back.

America bit his lip. A little hesitant as his body twinged with the position. The saddle had taken its toll. His body cooled a bit, anticipating that it would be more uncomfortable than before. He tugged at England’s shirt sleeve. “Can you take this off?”

England paused as America spoke coherently. He straightened, looking down at the boy as he unbuttoned his shirt. America shifted, trying to get more comfortable. “Ouch,” slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it.

***

England froze. “What's wrong?”

“I guess I’m a little sorer than I thought.” England stared at him, ice slipping into his chest. It hadn’t been what he said, but the way he’d said it. The drawn out sound of a southern accent. England gripped his chin and looked into America’s eyes. They were still clear blue. “Arthur?” America asked, the blue eyes widening in question.

“Let's just go to sleep.” He released him, moving away. America turned his head, pushing up on his hands.

America sat up, concern crossing his face. “I’m sure I’ll be fine if we take it slow... or is it something else? What’s wrong?” England eyed him warily, America hadn’t realized how he’d said it, that was entirely clear.

“Are you still having blackouts? You are aren't you!?”

“I don’t think so,” America said, eyes wide. “That stopped when he was defeated... I remember everything since you dragged me off that boat when Johnny surrendered to you. I was... I guess I was me again. I’m myself now.” Adjusting his position back down onto his stomach to take the pressure off his back, he watched England, worry in his eyes.

“I don't think we should do this yet... more distance between your civil war and this,” he said tightly.“Just in case.”

America’s brow furrowed. “So what was that in Stockton? Technically, I’m further from my war today... I’m myself, I swear it.”

“You swore you were yourself in London as well... I asked you to stop...” England shook his head, dragging his hands through his hair.

Confusion crossed America’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember anything do you?”

“I, well, I had a vague feeling that I’d been with you in London... you were sad, but I thought it was a dream. The, well, the rest feels cracked and broken.”

England shook his head with a sigh. “I- I I can’t- I can’t have sex with you if you aren’t completely aware. I don’t want to risk it. Your accent keeps changing and we haven't traveled that great of distance.”

“It’s still me... you told me... you said you saw him fade right in front of you...” America replied.

England shook his head and got off the bed. “Alfred...”

America gathered the blankets around him. “Wait, does that mean you didn’t sleep with Johnny, me...” Confusion washed over his face. “Well, when I wasn’t myself?”

“Of course I didn't!” England snapped. “How could I?!” England paced in agitation. “I could not do that. You switched back and forth almost as if you belonged in an asylum. I could not, would not, sleep with you when your mind was obviously fractured. How was I supposed to know if you were truly consenting to such an activity!?”

America lay back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. “Then what happened in D.C.? I remember that. New York?”

“I... I don’t know what that was. I... probably shouldn’t have done that, Alfred. San Francisco, either.”

“I don’t regret it... you shouldn’t either.” The silence stretched, neither being able to look at the other. “I was always a little worried. I know you like that aristocratic stuff...”

“I’ll admit it was nice, but not enough to...”

“That part of me, it’s here,” America said, laying a hand over his heart. “I’m... it’s just...” He shifted, laying on his side. “I’m all right now. Come here, we don’t have to... I just want to be close.”

England hesitated. “Alfred...”

“Please, Arthur. I’m putting myself back together. That’s what this place is about.”

“Not tonight,” England said, America’s look of frustration soon buried in the pillow. Running his fingers through his hair once more England eyed him warily before relenting and crawling onto the bed. America shifted, making space for England, but leaving the choice whether to touch him or not in his hands. They didn’t speak, America’s breath evening out as the exhaustion pulled him under.

England waited a bit to make sure America was asleep. This whole incident was chipping away at him. Swallowing, he turned over watching the adjacent blond. It would be so nice to not be in charge. America flopped onto his back with a snore and England felt his fingers twitch. _It would be nice to not have to be in charge for once in my life._ Scooting closer, England warred with himself and lost. Curling into America's side he laid his head on America's chest with a sigh, humming quietly as one of America's arms dropped around him. With a yawn, he allowed sleep to pull him away.

***

It was around dawn the next morning when America blinked awake. His face was cold, but the rest of his body was warm. Pulling the blanket up over his head, he shifted down further, England grumbling something in his sleep beside him.

America looked down at the top of his head, his fingers twitching against the soft skin of England’s hip. He looked so much younger when he was sleeping. England’s fingers stretched out on America’s chest as he adjusted to America’s movement. “It’s my turn,” he murmured against his hair. There was no response from England who was still dead to the world. America welcomed sleep once again and it wasn’t until hours later when he was awoken by England stirring.

“Too early,” England grumbled.

America tightened his arms around him. “No reason to wake up,” he said to the top of England’s head, yawning. “We could be here all day. I gave the animals plenty last night.” Shifting, he pressed his mouth to England’s neck.

England's eyes snapped open. “Alfred...”

“What?”

“I- we can't….”

America shifted away from him. “Can you stop treating me like a child that doesn’t know his own mind? I’m not a child anymore and I haven’t been for a long time.”

“I'm not treating you like a child.” He scowled.

“Yes, you are. Or is it that your pride won’t let you tell me what’s really going on? Do you want me or not? What is this between us?”

“This has nothing to do with my pride, Alfred,” England snapped sitting up quickly. “I don't want to to risk it when you are still healing.”

“No, I’m tired of feeling weak. You refusing me doesn’t help!” He stood up, pushing off the edge of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest.

England bristled. “So, you’re using me for sex to make yourself feel like a big nation!?”

“God damnit, Arthur! If all I wanted was to fuck a more important nation do you think I’m too ugly or naive to do it?” America said. “I told you before I would have fucked Francis years ago if that was the case. He would have been more than willing to do it to get under your skin.”

“Are you this daft!?”

“Are you blind!?”

“I will not have you molested and raped like the nations beneath Rome!” England screeched leaping to his feet. “Over my dead body shall I see or be part of that happening to you! That is the past not the now!! So fucking forgive me for trying to save you from that possible fate you ungrateful brat!”

America blinked at him, mouth open with a reply that died on his lips. “I don’t understand, what are you talking about?”

“I told you.” England breathed in through his nose hard. “That during the days before you were even a thought, even while I was raising you... while you whined I was gone too much things were happening. Raping and pillaging doesn’t only happen to the people conquered,” he said quietly.“Nations sometimes do what their people do...”

Seeing England look so unsure of himself was a shock. His entire life England seemed untouchable, not necessarily the most powerful, but always confident. There had been a moment where it had all slipped from England’s face and a horror had crossed it that America was afraid to ask about. He took a step toward him. “Arthur... why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I have told you. You just didn't understand. Don't you dare pity me,” he snapped.

America’s brow furrowed. He stepped towards him again and reached out toward him, but didn’t touch him. “Is that what you think this is... you and me? That I’m... compromising myself to make a point? That I’m forcing you to be someone you don’t want to be?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But I don't want you to be put in such a position. Why do you think I never slept with you while the Confederacy had so much control? I swore that when I became an empire that I would never be in such a predicament regardless of what side.”

“Even when you didn’t know we were the same?”

“I didn't believe you. I thought you had developed some odd coping mechanism.”

“You don’t believe me now either, even though I tell you that I’m not blacking out. It was a slip of the tongue last night. Johnny is part of me. He was just a manifestation of the cultures in the south that fought with, well, I don’t know if I was me then either. That version of me just took my name.” America bit his lip. “You were honorable towards me... even as part of me did its best to undermine you.”

“So, you see my reason for hesitation.”

America ran a hand through his hair. “I understand... but... how do I show you that I’m myself again? That I’m not going to break back into two people? That... I won’t fade right in front of you.” England shivered and America could see in his face that the day he’d woken up in his arms had shaken England to the core.

“That's part of the problem,” England said quietly, sitting back down “Though I suppose if you suddenly had manners and proper etiquette again then that would be a dead give away,” he said, the conversation coming back to safer waters.

Despite the situation, America laughed. “And here you thought I didn’t listen to you when you were trying to teach me manners.” He came back over to the side of the bed and sat down, head drooping slightly. “It’s not about you not wanting me?”

Turning red, England cleared his throat “No...”

A blush spread across America’s face along with a smile. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Yes, I guess it is.” He dropped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. America dropped down beside him, fingers brushing against England’s.

“Do you think we should go for a walk? The snow looks really beautiful.”

“I don't particularly want to go out right now.”

“All right.” America felt twitchy, riled up from their conversation. He understood him, but he was still worried. He didn’t want England to be uncomfortable. “I could make us some breakfast.”

“If you’re hungry, go ahead.”

“I can give you space if that’s what you want.”

“No... that's not what I want,” he said quietly.

America shifted to look at him. “What do you want?”

England looked at him silently for a moment. “You promise no blackouts?”

“Promise.”

Green eyes searched America’s face for a moment, before England nodded “All right.”

“All right?”

“I’ll sleep with you.”

America couldn’t help but laugh. “Just like that?”

England tensed, lips pressing together in anger. “I changed my mind. Yes, I do want to be left alone.” He rolled away, pulling the blankets with him angrily.

America scooted over behind him. He pressed up against England’s back and kissed his neck where it poked up above the blankets. “No, it’s just that you surprised me. I want to be with you.”

“Yes, let’s laugh when I offer.”

“You were making me wonder if you were ever going to sleep with me again. It was relief.”

England sniffed. “Do you plan to talk me to death?”

“No.” America wrapped his arms around him and pressed his mouth again on the skin at the back of England’s neck. One hand slid down England’s stomach, finding the hem of his trousers and working the fastening loose. The muscles of England’s belly jumped in surprise.

“Have you not learned that it takes a bit.” England murmured, turning to pull him into a kiss. America kissed him back, fingers working inside the others trousers and against him, taking England’s gasp as he touched him as an opportunity to take control of the kiss. England pushed against him, trying to roll him onto his back, but he didn’t let him.

He held England fast as he teased him with his fingers, the other squirming in his grip from the sensation. He watched England’s face, the little expressions that darted across it as his body responded to the attention. America focused on the kiss, groaning a little as England tangled one hand roughly in his hair and pulled. England’s other hand was on his hip, sliding over the skin beneath his small clothes. Rolling so that England was beneath him. America released him to take his hands in his own, pushing them towards the head of the bed. England’s expression was gratifying, a mixture of lust and challenge.

“What do you think you’re doing?” England asked, voice low. Dangerous in a way that made America’s heart race.

“Trying something,” he responded, leaning over him to cover England’s mouth with his own. England’s tongue curled against his own in a way that stole all the thoughts from his head. England’s fingers were tight on his hands as he gripped him in return, their bodies sliding against each other. Switching England’s wrists into one hand he moved his kiss to his throat, tasting the sweat that broke out on England’s skin. His free hand went back between them taking England in hand again.

“You learn too quickly...” England mumbled, the phrase punctuated by curses and small intakes of breath. Their bodies bumped together and America gasped. He loosened his hold on England’s wrists and the other took advantage of it, by wrapping one around his neck and taking a grip of the headboard with the other. Wriggling out of his hold, America leaned back up off him, fingers going to the hem of England’s pants so he could start pulling them down over his legs. The desire to try something else welled up in him as England lifted his hips to help. Desire and nerves warring for the top emotion sent a flush deepening across his face. The skin on the inside of England’s thigh was soft and sensitive, he felt he could feel England’s every move with every brush of his lips. He made his way up England’s leg, England’s hand finding a grip on his hair.

He paused, England’s fingers turned less rough and more patient on his head. He tried to remember when England’s mouth had been on him, and finding it was a little more challenging to get it right than he thought. England’s voice was warm in his ears with encouragement, the pulse in his thighs feeling loud in America’s ears. England pulled him off as he grew closer to the edge. Instead, he pulled America upwards into a kiss, their hands coming between them until they spent against each other’s bellies. England pressed his face into America’s shoulder breathing hard in the aftermath. America felt boneless against the blankets, unwilling to move from their tangled position.

“The things I'm going to teach you,” England panted as he dropped limp against the bed.

“Sounds good to me,” America replied, stretching.

England pulled him in for another kiss. “It's cold.”

“That didn’t warm you up?” America muttered against England’s lips. He didn’t mind, wrapping his arms around England’s middle to hold him to his chest.

“Mnnn. Maybe.” England draped his arms around the others neck. “But I'm cold now... and I need to make a pot.”

Kissing his jaw, America said, “You’re gonna leave me for tea?”

“I’m British remember?” His stomach growled. “And hungry it seems.”

“I’ll cook something.” America kissed him once more and made his way to the edge of the bed, shivering slightly as he pulled on his shirt. Padding over to the fire, he added another log.

With a whisper of old words, England coaxed the fire into full life immediately, moving not amuscle as he laid sprawled on the bed watching America lazily. Drawing his knees up slightly England allowed the blanket to drape over his frame like sheets over prized furniture. “Tea as well?” He purred at the thought, voice still rough.

Staring at the fire for a moment, America went to the cupboard rolling his eyes. “As you wish,” he said. Settling down to make some oatmeal and fix England’s tea. 

“A good cup might get you with more attention if you can drop the sarcasm.”

“I hate the stuff, but I can make it,” America said, settling the kettle in the fire along with the pot of oats. He walked back over to the bed and sat down. “That’ll take a few minutes.”

“You still have no taste.” He sniffed.

“That sounds like the pot calling the kettle black.” America leaned back on the bed, his head bumping against England’s legs.

“What do you mean by that!?” England snapped.

“We eat a lot of the same things. If you say I have no taste, that means you don’t either. I have an idea to make tea better though. Put ice in it.”

England gave him a look as if he had just been asked to kill the Queen. “That is horrible!”

“That’s progress,” America grinned up at him, jumping up when the kettle started to go off.

“Why do you Americans feel the need to mess with something already perfect?”

“There’s always room for improvement.” America checked the pot of oatmeal and took the steaming kettle over to the teapot, dropping in a few spoonfuls of leaves.

England scowled “The tea is perfectly fine the way it is!”

“When I perfect my recipe I think you’re going to like it.” America winked at him, sitting down at the table while the tea began to steep. He shivered a little.

“Absolutely not,” he argued.

“You say that now.” He poured out the cup of tea, getting up to look for the sugar. Sugar discovered, he added it and brought it to England.

“I will forever say it.” Sitting up England took the cup with a murmur of thanks, taking a sip he cringed slightly. It had been stepped too long, but he drank it nonetheless.

It wasn’t long until the oatmeal was ready. They sat, bowls in hand, beside each other in the blankets. America watched him, the scene feeling familiar while completely different.

“We should take the horses out.”

“Sure.” America agreed. They sat the dishes in a water bucket to soak and dressed for going out into the snow. They picked a path through the meadows, admiring the way the frost gathered on the cliff sides. The sound of the waterfall rumbled no matter where they went, part of the symphony of nature that filled the space. The days continued on in a similar manner, days spent outside exploring while their nights were spent in explorations of a different sort. It was almost a shock to their systems when they returned to San Francisco two weeks later.

***

“Alfred, you know I cannot delay my return home any longer.” Arthur scowled as he clamped his suitcase closed. They had arrived at America’s house late last night and he was set to sail later that morning.

“I know,” America said, getting up from where he sat on the bed to stand beside England, his hand going to the small of his back. “It’s not like I’m never going to see you again.”

“No, just a couple decades at most.”

“Much shorter than that. It’s a whole new world, Arthur.”

“To you, perhaps.”

America’s brow furrowed. It had begun to feel like more than just an escape. He felt like something had changed between them. Leaning close, he pressed a kiss to England’s cheek. “I’ll prove it to you.”

England gave him a sideways glance. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Keep your eyes open then. I’ll go down to the dock with you.”

England gave him a look. “Look at you, being being a gentleman. **”**

“I want to spend every minute I can with you.” He picked up England’s bag. “Let’s go.”

England hesitated for a moment, if he wanted to say something, do something, this was his last chance until who knew how long. For once that figurative door of opportunities was open. But nerves won out. Grabbing his hat, he nodded. “Lead the way.”

***

When they arrived at the docks, America felt an old ache rise up in his heart. He knew that England had to go, but he still didn’t like it.

“I guess... goodbye for now, then.” He extended a hand and offered a smile. There was no more room to pull him close and kiss him, that having been done hours ago in his rooms. He’d held him in his arms barely sleeping, knowing that he’d be alone once again. There were adventures to have and things to do, but it had seemed like a dream while England was there.

Gripping America's hand tightly he nodded before saying “Yes, goodbye and all that.Just... try not to cause any more problems would you? It's a terrible inconvenience to her Majesty and Parliament.”

“Well, if it would mean you have to talk to me...” He grinned and could see the frown begin to appear. “I’m just joking. Hopefully, it won’t be over an incident the next time we meet. So... I suppose you shouldn’t cause any problems either.”

England leveled him with a cool look. “I am the British Empire. I can handle all problems. “

“Sure thing, Arthur, but remember I’m here. What did you call me, hero?” He grinned. The steam ship’s whistle blew alerting passengers to final boarding.

“I didn't call you one. I asked why you were trying to act like one. You have to earn that title, Alfred.” He looked down at their hands which were still connected and gave one final squeeze.“Well, Alfred... I'll be off. You take care.” he gave gave a slight smile and grabbing his bag pulled away and left to board.

“Until next time.” It felt inadequate as he watched England’s back as he went up into the ship. America waited, watching for England to look one last time. When he did, America’s mouth silently formed the words.

_I love you._

He couldn’t tell if England had seen him or not, but the words felt good. He wanted to shout them, but he couldn’t. Instead he raised his hand in a wave, England’s eyes still on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the END!
> 
> Of Book 3 anyways, not the series. We are currently in the midst of Book 4 (which will cover World War I through the eve of World War II), and we have a set of interlude stories being edited to tide you over until Book 4 comes out. At the moment it's called Book 3.5: A Series of Historical Events and it has several different stories that function as vignettes of America and England exploring the relationship they've begun over the late 1800s and the turn of the 20th century. It will be rolling out soon! The Canada x France chapters will also be coming out in the next few weeks!
> 
> We really appreciate all of you who have been on this long journey with us so far. We started this project on a whim (nearly 3 years ago now!) and it's grown in scale and we've learned so much while writing it! Thank you for your support!


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